Grand Theft Brother
by FraidyCat
Summary: A dark tale of brotherhood lost; brotherhood taken; and brotherhood reclaimed.
1. The Break Down

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ****In the case of fanfiction, the author will usually give a disclaimer saying that the author of the fanfiction does not, in any way, profit from the story and that all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s). That sounds reasonable to me.**

**A/N: Plot Bunny -- apparently a rabid one -- courtesy Tanager36.**

**Chapter 1: The Break-Down**

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He began soiling himself on the seventh day, unable to control his bowels any longer.

He was given water on days one, three, and six. He never saw a face when it was delivered. The four-inch-square slot in the heavy wooden door was slid open, and a disembodied hand would drop a plastic bottle of water onto the floor. The bottles were never full; usually, the container yielded only two or three good swallows. He tried to save some; he tried to ration; but there was simply not enough. Every day the bottle dropped, he would crawl across the cold cement floor like an animal, and drink greedily.

He felt like an animal when he tried to use the empty bottles for urinals, too. The three bottles were lined up in the corner, silent sentries. Mocking witnesses to his distress, he could imagine that the content was changing; in color, in viscosity; probably even in odor, although he couldn't be sure of the last. For one thing, he was always careful to twist the lid back on the top. For another, after so many days in the tiny, dark, windowless room...there were many sources of odor. Most. he did not want to contemplate.

There was no sleep.

On Day One, when he had grabbed the wrist that slunk through the open cubby and begged for his brother, the bottle of water was dropped and the foreign fingers grabbed back. As his own hand was drawn to the other side, he heard The Voice for the first time. Masculine, firm; promising to punish him for pretending to be someone's brother. "You are alone," the voice insisted, and he heard the metal door sliding closed on its track. "You have no-one," The Voice droned, and he tugged hard to pull his hand back inside the room. "You are not a brother," The Voice thundered, and he screamed both in rage and fear and yanked back his arm as hard as he could. He was able to avoid amputation, but the edge of the door sliced into four of his fingers and the wounds were ripped wide as he pulled them to himself. He sunk onto the floor, his back to the door, and cradled his wet, sticky hand, nearly hyperventilating in his terror. The pain kept him awake that first night. The pain and the cold, after he removed his outer shirt and clumsily wrapped it around his hand in the dark, a makeshift bandage. He shivered in his thin t-shirt and his hand throbbed in time with his heart, and there was no sleep.

Sometime later, The Voice began again, and it never stopped -- except when a cacophony of discordant and meaningless sounds filled the air instead. The room was so small -- two steps in any direction -- that he could not escape either, whether the cubby was open or not. "You are not a man," it bellowed over and over, and then the cackles and wails would shrill harshly until he held his hands, one bloody and torn, over his ears and rocked desperately against the concrete wall. "You are bad," The Voice would then hiss, "and evil. You have committed grievious sins." And he would feel shame, lying in a fetal position on the floor. "All that you know has been bad," The Voice would tease, and he would wrap his arms over his head to escape the dissonant hoots that followed.

In the beginning, he had tried to argue with The Voice, but it would drone on over his protests, unhearing. By Day Seven, beyond exhaustion and hunger, he did not even notice the disparity when The Voice began to make demands. "Admit that they are bad," it growled. "Your father sins. Your brother sins. They are evil. Immoral, wicked reprobates." He had completely forgotten about Day One, when The Voice had claimed he was alone. He pounded on the solid door and felt the guilt descend upon him like a blanket. "Tell me," The Voice persisted into the eighth day, " confess that they are iniquitous."

He was standing at the door, weaving and waiting for the cubby to open, when it ripped through his parched throat. "They're bad," he rasped, "all of them." The cubby immediately slid open, and the bottle of water that dropped on Day Nine was half-full. He fought dizziness and the nausea of starvation, barely able in his weakness to twist off the loose cap. After drinking greedily, he nodded his head in confirmation. "They are diabolical and wrong," he told the door, echoing The Voice, "full of misdeeds and wrongdoing." The cubby slid open again, and a cracker dropped to the floor, breaking into several pieces. Even though it was the first food he had been offered in almost ten days, still the humiliation and self-reproach threatened to steal his appetite.

It was all he could do to lick the pieces of saltine off the floor.

"You are bad," The Voice began after an infinity of midday-traffic noises raged around him, returning to the original theme. "You are rotten, and peccant, just as they are. Tell me."

His culpability was deep, and ran through him like a knife. On Day Twelve, he lay in his own filth and sobbed uncontrollably at the undeniable and disorienting truth. _Who am I?_, he wondered. _What am I supposed to do?_ The depression was mind-numbing and he understood at last that he deserved it all.

On the thirteenth day, Charlie broke.


	2. The Break Apart

**Title: Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ad infitum  
**

**Chapter 2: The Break-Apart**

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Don was stoic throughout the funeral.

He stood somewhere in the middle of the crowd at the graveside, dark eyes hidden behind even darker glasses, his hands clasping each other loosely. They hovered over his groin in a gesture reminiscent both of self-protection and modesty. His suit jacket, unbuttoned to reveal the starched white shirt and appropriately-subdued black tie, flapped in the light breeze as is preparing for take-off.

He straddled, feet shoulder-width apart, his jaw working, searching for the ever-present gum that he had denied himself that morning, and the words of the minister were nothing but the buzz of a particularly annoying mosquito. He felt nothing.

He refused to feel, as dispassionate eyes protected by mirror lenses rested first on the elderly man who sat near the grave, folded flag in his lap, and then roamed to the young woman crying beside him.

The service ended, he exchanged the proper greetings and condolences, shrugged Colby's hand off his shoulder and headed for his car. Feeling nothing. Feeling nothing.

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He drove as far as the nearest grocery store and pulled into the parking lot, navigating slowly around the sprawling building until he was obscured from sight; tucked between two tractor-trailers delivering garden-fresh salads and tree-ripened oranges. During the 12-minute drive he had ignored two different calls on his cell. Now, he rolled down his window and checked his messages.

The first, predictably enough, was from Colby. In his voice mail, he reminded Don in a sad voice of the location of the after-service gathering, not really sounding as if he expected his friend to show up. At the end he had sighed loudly, and Don almost felt a twinge of guilt when the younger agent asked him to "take care of himself". This was difficult for Colby, too, Don almost admitted, but then a sales message from his cell provider started, and he allowed himself to be distracted. He lowered the phone slightly, flipping it shut to terminate the message.

It vibrated in his hand almost immediately, indicating yet another incoming call. He checked the caller ID, and considered ignoring it, and letting it go to voice mail as well. In the end, he couldn't, and he flipped the unit back open and brought the phone to his ear. "Yeah?"

Apprehensive, slightly reserved. "Um...Hi. Are you all right?"

Don closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. "It's over," he answered simply.

After a brief pause, his brother went on. "Well, where are you? Is there a...a...a 'thing', after?"

Don grunted and his eyes opened, staring at the upholstered ceiling. "I'm not there."

The concern in Charlie's voice escalated. "You're not going back to work, surely."

Don snorted. "It's not like I have a choice, Charlie. Administrative leave."

He could almost hear the wheels turning in Charlie's frightening head. "Oh," the younger man finally said. "That's standard procedure, right?

"Right." Don's voice was devoid of emotion, and he spoke by rote. "Whenever a junior agent goes down, the Team Leader is on AL during internal investigation."

"Then everything will be fine," Charlie responded.

A surge of anger broke through Don's reserve. "Everything is **not** fine," he spat. "An old man buried his son today because _I_ made a bad call." Charlie tried to interrupt, but now that he had started, Don found that he could not stop. "Danielson was fresh out of Quantico. Wright hasn't replaced Megan, yet. When David was called out of town to take care of his sister, it left the team too short. I should have insisted that Wright stand us down; assign us temporarily to other teams. I never should have gone into that warehouse with just Colby and a rookie. My God, I could have gotten us all killed!" He laughed bitterly. "So far the count remains at one."

Charlie objected stringently. "Don, it's the Assistant Director's job to make those calls. Colby told me it was a reconnaissance mission anyway; no-one was supposed to be there." Don didn't answer and Charlie began to really worry. "Listen," he said, changing tacts, "I only have one class this afternoon and I have a test scheduled. A T.A. can proctor; let's spend some time together."

Don didn't even entertain the thought; another thing he would regret for the rest of his life. "No." He bit off the word so that it sounded even shorter than its two letters would seem to indicate. He made a half-hearted attempt at placating Charlie. "Not real good company right now."

It was the wrong thing to say, as far as discouraging the professor was concerned. "I don't care about that," he insisted adamantly. "Let me come and get you and take you to the house, at least."

Don was beginning to get claustrophobic. This conversation was trapping him, and he needed it to end. "I just want to be alone, dammit," he nearly yelled into the cell. "Just give me a break, willya Charlie?"

And so Don spent Day One hurting his brother's feelings, and then driving aimlessly down the coastline for hours. He turned off his cell -- not that Charlie had a chance to call him anyway. One second he was standing in the faculty parking lot, regarding a flat tire on the Prius dismally, and the next there was a solid presence behind him, and a vice-like grip holding a handkerchief soaked in chloroform to his face. When Charlie came to his senses again some time later, he was already in the cell-like room, lying on the cold cement floor.

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Don left his cell phone off, and when he returned to his apartment and saw seven messages on the machine, he unplugged the landline as well. Before he disconnected, he listened to the calls. Two more from Colby. One offering him a cash advance on his credit card -- and four from his father. He started off by inviting Don to dinner, worked his way up to complaining about Don's cell, and by the last message sounded as worried as Charlie had been. At least Don had the decency to call his father back, which he did mostly because some vestige of his brain remembered that his dad would be at book club by the time Don was listening to the messages. So he purposely called the landline at the house, hoping to God that Charlie was not there either, and left a brief response: _I'm fine, Dad, I was driving all afternoon. Must've been out of service area, sorry. I'll talk to you later._ Then he ripped the phoneline out of the wall, opened the bottle of tequila he had brought home, and drank until he passed out.

He spent the second day lying like a slug on the couch, in vomit-covered clothes, alternating between sleeping and feeling sorry for himself. It was early evening before he mustered enough passion to stagger into the bathroom and take a shower. He was still towel-drying his hair when the pounding on the door started. At first he assumed it was his headache reasserting itself, but eventually he heard his father calling his name and figured out what was happening. He hurried into the sweatpants he had brought with him into the bathroom and was still struggling into his t-shirt when he got to the door. He thrust an arm through a sleeve and dragged the cotton over damp skin, then unlocked his two deadbolts and threw open the door. He looked nervously over his father's shoulder. "Geez, Dad, keep it down! You're going to get the entire building in an uproar."

Alan pushed past him, his face grim, and didn't even apologize. "Is Charlie here with you?" He glanced down the hall toward the bedrooms and then started for the living room. "Charlie? Charlie!"

Don shut the door and padded barefoot after his father. He grimaced slightly at the mess in the living room. Apparently not all of the vomit ended up on his clothes. "Dad, he's not here. What's the problem?"

Alan whirled and looked at him. Don knew something was seriously disturbing his father when he didn't even mention the state of the couch or the nearly empty bottle on the floor. "Have you talked to him?"

Don raised a hand to scratch his head. "Not since yesterday. He called me around noon, I think." He shrugged and attempted a smile. "Maybe he's with Amita."

Alan shook his head. "That's what I thought, when I got back from my meeting and his car wasn't in the driveway. I just assumed they were spending the night at her place. But she called me around 11 this morning and said that she hadn't seen him since before his last class yesterday, and he didn't show up for his first class today!"

Don frowned. "11? Why didn't someone call me?"

Alan arched an eyebrow. "I've tried, son. Apparently your cell is still out of service area, and your landline has been busy all day."

Don winced, and let his eyes stray to the phone. The cord lay naked on the floor, mocking him. "I'm sorry," he said, feeling like an idiot. "I just wanted some time alone." He cringed at how lame the excuse sounded, even to himself. "You've called Charlie's cell?"

Alan sighed, exasperated. He, too, had seen the unplugged phone. "Of course we have. Straight to voice mail. Amita says his car is in the faculty parking lot, with a flat tire. It took quite a while for them to determine he actually wasn't on campus."

Years of training kicked in, and Don marched to the phone, leaning to plug it back into its receptacle. "We'll get LAPD on it," he said, lifting the receiver. "If nobody's seen him in 24 hours, he's a missing person. They can trace the GPS chip in his phone and get a location."

Alan nodded his head, attempting and failing at a grin. "I just wanted to make sure he wasn't here. I know he's been worried about you."

Don felt a stab of guilt but was saved from an answer when his call connected. "I need to report a missing person," he barked, then rolled his eyes at Alan. "I'm on hold."

His father had started for the kitchen. "Where's the mop?" he asked. "This place is a mess."

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By the third day, LAPD had traced Charlie's phone -- and found it lying underneath the car parked next to his in the CalSci faculty lot. Even though all involved were fairly certain it had skittered there during a struggle, still the English literature professor was interviewed. He had not parked there before; apparently, two other vehicles had come and gone without anyone noticing the small dark phone on the asphalt.

Even though he was on Administrative Leave, Don called Assistant Director Wright and begged for F.B.I. involvement. "Charlie consults for us," he pointed out, "this could be related to a case!" When Wright agreed and assigned a team, it was almost more painful. Don was not able to direct the investigation himself, or allowed to help. Even Colby was not involved; Wright's opinion was that he would be too personally involved.

On Day Five, he showed up at the Craftsman with his arms full of files anyway. "I took a personal day," he explained. "This is everything we've worked on for the last month."

Don ushered him into the house while Alan scurried away to make coffee. "Everything, or just the stuff Charlie worked on?"

Colby answered as they walked toward the dining room table. "I decided to bring everything. This could be some kind of vendetta; maybe it's someone trying to get to you through him."

He dumped the files on the table and Don shuddered. "I've considered that possibility," he admitted, pulling out a chair. "LAPD doesn't think it's very likely, so let's concentrate on that angle; they're not going to put much time into this theory."

"Right," answered Colby, picking up a file and passing one to Don. "Let's think like Charlie. Get some paper, and we'll start making lists of things these cases have in common. Damn, I wish Larry was here." He brightened, suddenly. "Amita can design one of those search algorithms for us, right?"

By midway through the sixth day, she had done just that. Still, as the results came in, the trio sat despondently at the table. "I'm sorry," she said in a broken voice hoarse from days of tears, both shed and unshed. "The only thing every single one of these cases has in common is the F.B.I. personnel who were involved in the investigation." She picked up their last case file listlessly. "That is only true if we don't include this one, since David wasn't there."

Don sat back in disgust. "Great." He looked at Colby. "We know David is still in Chicago, and he's been there since before Charlie disappeared. Danielson is dead. **I** certainly am not hiding my own brother somewhere. Unless you're working for both sides again, Granger, this is a bust."

Amita gasped and Colby's face reddened. Don muttered to the table apologetically. "Sorry. I know you've been helping us on your own time, and you didn't deserve that."

Colby shrugged off both the comment and the apology, but still returned to work that afternoon. Don was surprised to see him at the Craftsman door again on the seventh night, and even more surprised to pick up on the agent's tense excitement. "You got something?" he asked immediately.

Colby stepped into the vestibule and started talking immediately, not waiting for Alan to make his way to the door. "Don, Jim Danielson called today. Jeff's father." Don's face closed and he started to turn away, but Colby grabbed his arm. "He wanted to thank us for everything, and he asked to speak to you. When his call was finally directed to me, he apologized for his son's bad behavior."

Alan had finally joined them, and was standing behind Don. "That's an odd thing to say about someone you just lost," he began.

Colby interrupted. "That's what I thought, and I tried to explain that Jeff didn't do anything wrong. Then he said, 'Not that son. His older brother, Mark. He refused to come to the service and said such terrible things about Agent Eppes to anyone who would listen. I haven't even seen him in over a week.'" Colby shook Don's arm in his tight grip. "A _week_, Don! That's how long Charlie has been missing! We have a suspect!" Don almost passed out in sweet relief. He probably would have, if his father hadn't taken him into his arms.

By Day Nine, that relief was gone, and hopeful hugs were a thing of the past. Even though both LAPD and the F.B.I. were looking for Mark Danielson, they were coming up empty. He hadn't been to his job, which he had only held for a year. His coworkers described him as aloof and private; he kept himself segregated from everyone else, and no-one knew much about him. The tiniest of leads were followed, and all of them led to dead ends.His apartment was dusty; it was apparent there had been no activity there in quite some time. Still, an officer was assigned to watch for his return. A loner in every sense of the word, the man had no pets, no girlfriend, no hobbies that would have exposed him to other people. His father, who lived in Oregon, was not much help; he had no idea what kept his son so preoccupied. Jeff Danielson and his fiance had just moved to the L.A. area six weeks before. She had found the brother odd. He had come over to their house only once, right after they arrived. While he had seemed thrilled to see his brother at first, he had changed completely when she had walked out of a back bedroom to join them. He had refused all invitations after that, though Jeff would often go to Mark's apartment. The younger man had not seen his older brother in years, and he had confided to his fiance that he was a little disturbed by who he found waiting for him. The woman had brushed at her eye and her voice wavered. "Jeff remembered someone strong, and he found someone broken," she remembered. "He told me he was spending so much time with Mark because he hoped to convince him to seek help." The picture that emerged of Mark Danielson was not comforting.

On Day Eleven A.D. Wright phoned Don to tell him that the internal investigation of Danielson's death had been completed. Consensus was that the intel had been bad; intel gathered mostly by another team. When the case had been reassigned to Don, he had responded in the proper manner. F.B.I. field agents trust each other with their very lives, and are not encouraged to second-guess each other; it was agreed that he should not have been expected to start from the ground up on the case. In fact, Wright told him, he was under consideration for a commendation. His quick thinking in the field had kept himself and Agent Granger alive. Agent Danielson was wearing his vest at Don's order. The Team Leader could not be held responsible for the armor-piercing ammunition that made the vest useless. Don was cleared to return to work as soon as he felt able, the Assistant Director informed him, encouraging him to take "as much time as you need" to deal with his "family emergency".

Don found the entire conversation depressing. It didn't matter what some investigation determined; he knew that Jeff Danielson's death was on his hands. He never should have taken him to that warehouse with second-hand information. Even more depressing, Wright spoke about his "family emergency" as if he didn't expect them ever to find Charlie; at least, not alive. As the hours rolled over into the twelfth day, Don saw signs that everyone else seemed to share his opinion. Amita was teaching again, and Millie had moved an adjunct professor to full-time, to cover Charlie's classes. Colby hadn't been by in almost two days, and told him almost casually over the phone that he was considering an undercover assignment while he waited for the team to redefine itself. Alan brought home the week's groceries without any of Charlie's favorites. Don himself had not slept in almost 48 hours, for every time he closed his eyes he would see Charlie, pale and lifeless in a coffin, hands folded demurely across his chest. No-one knew better than Don did how unlikely Charlie's survival was, and how much the odds against him increased with every passing day.

So he went back to his apartment for the first time in over a week, a fifth of tequila in one hand, a fifth of vodka in the other. He sat at the bar in the kitchen and took turns, drinking first from one bottle, and then the other, eyeing his service weapon in its holster on the end of the bar.

On the thirteenth day, Don broke.


	3. The Build Up

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ad infintum**

**Chapter 3: The Build-Up**

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On the fourteenth day, the door opened.

After the water and cracker had been dropped through the cubby, the noise had stopped, and Charlie had cried himself to sleep. He had long ago lost any concept of time, so he never knew how long he had gone without sleep; or how long he slept once the noise stopped. He remembered licking the floor for pieces of broken cracker, guzzling the last of the water, and then a blinding pain as light drifted into the room.

He cried out and lifted his arms to cradle his head as he tucked into a fetal position. "It is only the moon," The Voice said from somewhere above him. "Your eyes will adjust soon. When you are ready, we will go."

In his disoriented state, Charlie still managed to recognize that there was something different about The Voice. Oh, it was definitely the same man, but he was not shouting, angry. The Voice was almost pleasant, the disparity further discombobulating Charlie's shattered psyche. When, after a time, hands began to pry at his arms, he tried to scoot away in terror, but found that he could not. His mind screamed at him of danger, but his body would not respond, and lay limply on the cement floor.

Somehow, The Voice was able to get his body to do things Charlie himself could not. His brain gave up trying as the hands dragged him upright, and succumbed to a whirling dizziness. He was not really aware of it, but while Mark Danielson was managing to move him from a sitting to a standing position, he passed out three times. He had not stood in two days, and he wobbled on legs as weak as a newborn colt's, leaning heavily on Danielson as they made their way across a short moonlit spanse of grass, toward the back of a small log cabin. If Charlie had been able to think, to reason, to remember, the secluded location would have reminded him of the fishing cabin he, Don and his father had rented near Big Bear the year before. If Charlie could remember Don, and Alan, that trip might have clawed its way to the surface. As it was, he did not think at all; he only sobbed quietly and clung to his captor's solid and supporting bulk, fingers trying to twist in the fabric of a flannel shirt, and waited for a nightmare he no longer realized he was in, to end.

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The cabin was awash with the gentle lights of several lanterns. As they were somewhat brighter than the moonlit exterior, the two men had stood at the open back door for a few moments while Charlie's eyes further adjusted. Still, he had a pounding headache to add to his list of miseries by the time Mark Danielson half-dragged him into a small bathroom.

The Voice spoke to him gently; in frendliness; an accommodating host. "Hard to believe a cabin way out here has working plumbing," he chattered, and Charlie didn't understand what he meant, and let his head fall to his chest in shame. He was a human being totally without redeeming qualities, he understood. He was worthless. Danielson elaborated. "There are towels on the counter, and some fresh clothing. The shower works; you can clean yourself up."

Charlie began to cry again, because the word 'shower' had struck a cord, and he wanted it as badly as he had ever wanted anything. "I don't deserve it," he whispered between gasping sobs.

Danielson agreed mildly. "No, you don't. But I will give it to you. It is a reward for your recognition of your own unworthiness." He turned and started out the door, pausing in the hall to look back. "You should clean yourself, before I change my mind, you filthy piece of shit."

Charlie dropped his head further and wavered on his feet, the support of his captor gone, and wondered what to do. The door remained open to the hallway, but that was fine with him. He never wanted to see another closed door again. Eventually, he began to peel off his soiled clothing, leaving it in ragged piles where it dropped. Holding his hands over his humiliating nakedness, he wobbled into the shower stall.

He didn't so much make decisions as he worked on automatic pilot. The molded ledge of the fiberglass stall supported a tiny shampoo bottle and soaps, like those found in hotels, and Charlie washed his hair three times, using the entire bottle. In-between washings, he scrubbed with the washcloth he had also located on the shelf, and a tiny bar of soap; until it dwindled away to a nub and dropped through his fingers.

The cuts he had received on his first day of captivity had been healing, but the steam and water of the shower soon opened them and he trailed watery blood down his body as he sudsed and sobbed. He was crying heavily when he first stepped under the hot mist, but had dwindled to a quiet, shuddering, weak whimper by the time the water was cold. Still, unable to make a judgment call, he wept under the icy stream until Danielson came back into the room, stepped over to the shower and turned it off.

Charlie stood silent, shaking and dripping, eyes downcast, until Danielson, who had not said a word, left the room. Even then, it was quite some time before he made his way out of the shower and began to use the towels so thoughtfully provided. He used the toilet, wincing in terror at the sound it made as he flushed, and hurried to step into the baggy boxers and jeans that had been on the counter next to the towels. When he saw the specks of blood soaking into the denim, he swallowed in disgrace and wrapped the wet washcloth around his bleeding fingers before he awkwardly donned the sweatshirt.

When he was dressed, he stood barefoot in the bathroom and hiccupped, again at a loss. He stood there for so long that he may have fallen asleep. He did not hear or see Danielson approaching, and started in shock and fear when the older man gently lifted his wounded hand and began to remove the washcloth. "I will bandage this for you," he stated almost gently, and Charlie tried to pull his hand away.

"I don't deserve your kindness," he protested.

Again, Danielson agreed with him. "That is true; even the shower did not clean you." He held Charlie's hand firmly in his own and reached with the other to open a glass-fronted cabinet over the sink. As the door swung open, the glass reflected Charlie's face to his own eyes, and he dropped them immediately in embarrassment.

"How can you even stand to look at me?", he whispered.

Danielson suppressed a smile as he carefully wound gauze around each of Charlie's sliced digits. "I am a great man," he answered at length. "I have great compassion." He taped down the last bit of gauze and dropped Charlie's hand. "Come with me," he ordered.

So Charlie followed him out of the small room, down a narrow hallway and into a compact kitchen. He hesitated when Danielson offered him a chair at the table. The Voice sat down first, and again indicated the other chair. "Sit." When Charlie did, Mark smiled broadly and lifted the lid from a large saucepan in the middle of the table. He ladeled hot stew into two bowls, and pushed one in Charlie's direction. "Eat."

Again, instinct took over. Charlie had not had food in two weeks, and he ate that way. He ignored the spoon before him and lifted the bowl with both hands, tipping it to his mouth. He drank all of the thick broth he could, then set the bowl back on the table and began to pick pieces of meat, carrot and potato out with his fingers, stuffing them into his mouth until his cheeks resembled a chipmunk's, before he remembered to chew and swallow. At some point Danielson had placed a hard roll in front of him, and he picked it up and hid his hand in his lap; too full to eat it, but afraid to leave it on the table.

Mark ate more slowly, and with more refinement – although he did slurp occasionally. He helped himself to a second bowl, dipping his own bread into the stew and watching Charlie from beneath hooded eyes. Clean, wounds treated, appetite momentarily sated, Eppes' head was sinking lower onto his chest and it was obvious he was nearing sleep once again.

Danielson cleared his throat loudly and Charlie's head jerked up, his eyes wide. His companion smiled. "Tell me about your brother."

Charlie felt a stab of longing in his heart. He had slept, and he had eaten, and he was starting to remember things. "His name is Don," he whispered.

Danielson looked interested. "What does he do?"

Charlie frowned, searched his muddled head and almost smiled when he came up with an answer. "The F.B.I. He's a field agent."

Danielson nodded, somber. "He must be a horrible person. Killing people all the time. Giving orders that kill his own coworkers. His heart must be as black as hell itself."

Talking about Don had raised his image in Charlie's mind, increasing his longing, and he shook his head slightly. His frown grew deeper. "Don is a good man?" It came out as a question, and he answered it himself. "Yes. I know he is."

This time Danielson frowned, and leaned forward toward Charlie. "Do you miss him, then?"

The tears always close-at-hand sprang to Charlie's eyes, and he nodded. "Yes, please. And my Dad."

Danielson sighed and stood, towering over Charlie. "I am truly sorry to hear that," he said, and his voice grew ominous. "Come with me."

Charlie stood on shaky legs and followed Danielson once again, compliant. They traveled to the back door of the cabin, and he balked when Danielson opened it and he saw the old smokehouse silhouetted in the moonlight. He took a step backwards, eyes wide. "Please don't make me go back in there," he begged.

Danielson turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. "But you have sinned. You still defend those who sent you here. Your brother, and your father."

Charlie squeaked, his voice high in fear. "I'm sorry," he started, and then he said exactly the wrong thing, calling out for help. "Donnie…"

Danielson's impassive expression turned murderous, and with a giant lunge he grabbed Charlie and threw him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. He turned and started out the door, easily able to subdue Charlie's weak struggles, shouting over his cries. "Reprehensible, baneful, pernicious bastards!" he screamed, striding across the lawn as if Charlie were no heavier than a sack full of potatoes. "Evil, evil malfeasants!" he continued, dropping Charlie on the floor of the smokehouse so that his head connected with the concrete, stunning him into semi-consciousness. "Deny them!" he ordered, slamming shut the heavy wooden door. He continued to grumble as he snapped the padlock shut in its hitch, muttering even as he reached over his head to turn on the tape player. The jangle of mismatched clamor began again, and Danielson swore under his breath and remembered to make sure the speakers were aimed toward the eaves of the tiny building before he stormed back across the yard.

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Days Fifteen through Seventeen were much like the first few days. Again Charlie was offered only a swallow or two of water, and again the constant noise kept him awake. Although he was not kept in the smokehouse long enough to soil himself this time, all of the filth remained from his first stint in the room. The odor had him vomiting his stew before the padlock was snapped shut, and he spent the next three days in hell. In one corner stood the bottles of urine. Feces, diarreah and vomit covered most of the remaining floor space, so he could only stand in the corner directly under a speaker and behind the door, and listen to either the strident pre-recorded din, or the live rantings of The Voice.

Charlie broke much sooner this time.

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On the night of the eighteenth day, the door opened.

This time Danielson had to carry Charlie across the moonlit lawn, lay him on a bed and give him a sponge bath, all of which he did with deceptive tenderness. He carefully unwound the bandages from Charlie's fingers as he slept, and nodded his head in satisfaction to see the newly-formed scabs. He re-applied antibiotic ointment and fresh gauze, and let Charlie sleep while he heated chicken broth.

When it was ready, he woke the young professor, who cried silent tears the entire time he was being spoon-fed. Danielson used his own callused thumb to brush them away, and Charlie cried harder, the touch reminding him of something lost, something missing. Mark murmured sweetly, setting the half-empty cup of broth on the floor and leaning over the bed. "Tell me your name," he commanded, and Charlie blinked at him a few times before he whispered the truth.

"I don't know."

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End, Chapter 3


	4. The Balloon

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ad infintum**

**Chapter 4: The Balloon**

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On the fourteenth day, the door opened.

Alan had knocked on the door for almost five minutes before he took out the spare key Don had given him and went to work on the deadbolts. His son's vehicle had been in the apartment's parking space, so he was fairly certain that Don was inside. He hesitated to infringe on his eldest's privacy by using the key, but he didn't want to pound on the door too loudly -- both because Don had objected to such behavior two weeks ago, when Alan had come looking for Charlie; and because if he had come home for some desperately-needed sleep, Alan wanted to make sure he got it.

Once the door was unlocked, Alan cracked it open a few inches and called out. "Donnie? Are you home, son?" There was no answer, so he pushed the door open further and walked inside. The first thing he noticed was the smell of alcohol, and he looked toward the kitchen to note with distaste the bottles on the bar. Moving closer, he glanced into the living room; empty. Reaching the bar, he found the tequila nearly gone, the vodka bottle three-quarters down, and Don's service weapon half out of its holster. The black Glock gleamed ominously on the white tile of the bar, and Alan looked quickly away. _I hope Don didn't drink all that, he thought_, remembering the binge he had interrupted two weeks before. There was a puddle of amber liquid near the tequila bottle, and Alan hoped that meant that at least some of the alcohol had been spilled.

He turned away and started down the hall toward the bedroom, pausing at the open door to the bathroom. He peered around the edge of the door frame. "Donnie?" he called again. Finding nothing in the bathroom, he moved on to the master bedroom. This door was also open, and at first Alan was relieved to see his boy sprawled on his stomach on the bed. He was shirtless, but still wearing his jeans; plus, a sock on one foot, and a shoe on the other. Alan shook his head and approached the bed, intending to cover his son with the blanket hanging halfway to the floor, but as he drew closer he saw the pool of vomit around Don's head, and panicked. Leaning over, he laid his fingers against Don's neck and nearly cried when the solid thump of a pulse pressed back.

Alan hung his head for a moment, took a deep breath, and then sat on the edge of the bed, sliding his hand down to Don's naked shoulder. "Donnie," he said, shaking the shoulder. "Get up now, son. You need to take a shower and let me change this bed." Don didn't budge, and some part of Alan registered how slowly and irregularly his hand rose with his son's respirations. An unnamed fear churned in his gut, and he shook a little harder, spoke a little more loudly. "Don! Wake up, son!"

He suddenly flashed on his college days, when a dormmate had drunk himself into a stupor and suffocated on his own vomit during the night. Dear God, Don could be aspirating into his lungs right now! Terrified, Alan grabbed the cell phone off the bedside table. With one hand he continued to shake Don, and with the other, he dialed 9-1-1.

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Colby tilted back in his chair and propped his feet on the edge of his desk. He ran one hand over his head while the other held a cell to his ear, and attempted to reassure his friend. "David, don't worry about it. You're exactly where you need to be, right now. I'm just sorry about the biopsy."

Agent Sinclair sighed. "Me, too. But Karen is handling it pretty well; really upbeat and optimistic. I'd just feel better if I stayed and helped her through this first round of chemo." He paused, and his voice filled with indecision. "She says she's fine, though, and keeps telling me I can leave anytime…she does have a great support system of friends out here."

Colby offered a reminder, gently. "Dave, the federal family leave act exists for a reason."

David sighed again. "I know. I know. I just can't believe everything's that's gone down while I've been gone. First Danielson falls in the field; now Charlie's been missing for two weeks. Don must be a mess."

Colby let a wry grin escape. "You could say that. He really took the Danielson thing hard, man."

"I'll bet. And speaking of support systems, his is kind-of shot to hell right now. Megan's working out of the D.C. office, Larry is teaching at Georgetown, I'm in Chicago…" He chuckled, although there was no humor in it. "You and Alan must be up for commendations by now."

The phone on Colby's desk began to trill, and he crashed his tilted chair to the floor and prepared to go back to work. "Especially Alan," he agreed. "Amita, too. Listen, Dave, my landline is ringing. Gotta get back at it."

"Sure," Sinclair said hurriedly. "Tell everyone I'm thinking of them, and I'll be back as soon as I can."

Colby prepared to disconnect one phone and pick up another. "Yeah. Take it easy, Dave; and hang in there, okay?"

"You too, partner," David responded and Colby smiled. He would never get tired of hearing that word; not since the whole thing with the Chinese went sour and gave him a taste of what life would be like without his friends.

He pocketed his cell and lifted the landline. "Agent Granger." He stood slowly, listening intently to the voice on the other end. He was pawing through the top drawer of his desk, looking for his car keys, before Alan was even finished. "I'm on the way," he promised. "I'll meet you there."

The plastic receiver cracked when Colby slammed it into its cradle, but he didn't even notice. He was too busy running for the elevator.

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On the morning of Day 17, Don stood resolute at the window of his hospital room, staring at the parking lot. When the door opened behind him, he did not even turn around, but assumed it was his father coming to take him home. "Did you finally get that jerk to sign the release papers?" he asked. "Cuz I swear, Dad, if you didn't; I'm outta here AMA."

There was the sound of a voice clearing, and then the unmistakeable no-nonsense tones of William Bradford. "To do what, Agent Eppes? Finish off the vodka?"

Don whirled and faced his nemesis with narrowed eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, letting his eyes skitter past the psychiatrist, to the closed door. "Where's my father?"

Bradford's bland expression did not waver. "Mr. Eppes asked me to stop by before you left; I believe he's finishing the paperwork now."

Don crossed his arms over his chest and turned back to the window angrily. "He had no right to do that."

Bradford approached until he was standing beside Don, and looked out the window with him. "I'll admit, it is somewhat unorthodox. But when I hear that one of my patients is in distress, I tend not to focus much on society's imposed mores."

Don snorted, refusing to look at the man. "I'm not in distress. Unless you count being trapped in this place when I should be out there, doing something."

Bradford consulted the file in his hand for a moment, and then raised his eyes to the window again. "I see. So a blood alcohol level of .20 – almost three times the legal limit – is no big deal, for you. Twelve hours on a respirator and almost 24 hours of IV fluids and vitamins, while the poison was flushed from your system, is just another day at the office." Don growled low in his throat but didn't answer, so Bradford went on. "Such irresponsible behavior does not correspond to the man I know. The individual who has met with me in my office has only described his father in the most glowing of terms; that man would never do this to someone who has already lost one son this month."

It was lightning-fast. Bradford barely registered that Don was moving, and then the portly doctor was bouncing off the window. "He's NOT lost!", Don screamed, shoving Bradford at the window. Then, horrified at his own physical outburst, he let go of the man's suit coat abruptly and began to back away, shaking his head. "He's not lost," he said again, much more quietly this time.

Bradford straightened his tie and fought to maintain his composure as he regained his feet. "Missing, then," he abridged unapologetically. "Either way, your father does not need to be worried about you too, right now."

Don ran a hand through his short-cropped hair and exhaled loudly. "It's my fault," he whispered, and Bradford didn't so much as raise an eyebrow.

"Because?"

Don looked at him with tear-filled eyes. "Because I blew him off. He called me, wanted to spend the afternoon with me, and I blew him off." He nearly choked on the next words. "The last conversation I had with him, I yelled at him to leave me alone."

Dr. Bradford turned to look out the window again, pausing to consider what he already knew. Then he turned back to his patient. "When did he call you?"

"The day he disappeared," Don answered bitterly. "After…the service..."

Bradford helped him out a little. "I'm aware of Agent Danielson's unfortunate death; I was waiting for you to get in touch with me regarding any issues that may have…fueled." He smiled, not unkindly. "I know how seriously you view your role as a Team Leader."

Don seemed to deflate like a popped latex balloon. His shoulders sagged, and he regarded the doctor with a haggard face that looked ten years older than it was. "I don't think I can go back," he admitted. "I screwed everything up. I had an affair with a junior agent that ended badly, and she left the team. I didn't pay enough attention to communication problems that were building between myself and the team profiler, and then Megan left the team. Worst of all – most unredeemable of all – I sent a rookie to his death."

Bradford questioned him gently in the quiet room. "It is my understanding that your actions have been cleared in this matter; is that not correct?"

Don sneered. "Who the hell cares what some 9-to-5 pencil-pushing bureaucrat writes on his damn report? End of the day, it was **my** call. _Mine._ He trusted me to make the right one, and he didn't even live to regret that decision."

Bradford could see that there was more than one serious issue at work here, and for the moment, he redirected to the former discussion. "Your brother phoned you after the service?"

Don looked away. "So now, I may have killed him, too. At the very least, he thinks I hate him."

The doctor considered for a while, and then stepped across the room until he was standing directly in front of the F.B.I. agent. "Why did he phone?"

Don looked at him irritably, as if the man had gone suddenly daft. "I told you. He wanted to spend the afternoon with me."

Bradford persisted. "He has work responsibilities of his own, doesn't he?"

Don sighed and rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Of course he does, but he offered to have a T.A. cover for him. He knew I was…" Don suddenly looked a little ill, and the last word was almost a whisper as he looked down at his feet. "…upset."

The psychiatrist did something then he rarely did with his patients. He reached out and touched someone, laying his hand on Don's bicep. "He knew you were upset, so he went out of his way to make himself available to you." He squeezed the muscle and then let his hand drop. "That does not sound like the response of a man who feels hatred; either coming from you, or aimed in your direction." Don looked up warily and Bradford smiled. "Do not forget, I have met young Dr. Eppes, and it is my expert opinion that your brother loves you, and believes that feeling is reciprocated."

Don reddened and looked away, swallowing convulsively, and Bradford waited a moment and then chuckled. "It is also my expert opinion that the two of you are in great need of my services; seldom have I encountered a pair of brothers with as much water threatening to break through so many dams; it is my great desire to help the two of you engineer some bridges over some of that water. Together; and separately." Don raised his eyes to meet Bradford's again and the doctor lifted an eyebrow. "Hell, boy, I hardly know where to start, with you."

Don managed a wry twist of the mouth. "That makes two of us."

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Don went from the hospital to the Craftsman, where Alan had brought most of his clothes. The evening of the day he was released, Colby stopped by the house. While Charlie didn't spend a lot of time there, between CalSci and all of his other activities, the house still felt strangely bereft and silent without him.

Alan greeted him warmly, if somewhat sadly, searching Colby's face for good news, before he faded into the kitchen, insisting on making dinner for the three of them. Colby joined Don on the couch; one on each end, turned slightly to face each other.

As soon as the door swung shut behind Alan, Don dove in. "Colby, I appreciate all you've done. I want…I want you to know that; and…and I'm not sure when I can come back. I'm not sure _if_ I can come back…so I'll understand if you feel like you need to take another assignment."

Colby shrugged. "Nah. I thought about that undercover gig." He grinned wickedly. "But let's face it dude, the last time didn't end so well for me." Don let a small smile escape and Colby continued. "It's the height of vacation season; I can float from team-to-team, filling in." He turned serious. "Don – man, it sucks, what happened to Danielson – but it was **not** your fault. What I'm doing; floating, filling in – it's just that, man. It's not home, ya know? Dave'll be back, and you'll be back, and the three of us, we'll start building again." Don let his eyes fall, and Colby changed the subject to an even more volatile area. "Besides. Hanging out at the office, I can keep my ear out for news on Charlie."

Don looked up sharply. "What did you hear?"

Colby looked at him sympathetically. "LAPD is going to pull the guy watching Danielson's house on Friday, if nothing new comes in by then. They're scaling down the operation."

Don stood, glaring in Colby's direction. "Friday? That'll be three weeks. They're only gonna try to find him for three weeks?"

Colby held up a hand. "I said they're scaling down, man, not quitting." He looked miserable as he shared his next tidbit of information. "Us, too. Officially. As of Friday, Jameson's team is no longer exclusively on Charlie's case."

Don's face fell almost as far as his heart. "My God," he said quietly. "He's going into Cold Case, isn't he?"

Colby stood as well, walking the length of the couch to stand before Don. "That just means you and I have to work a little harder."

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	5. The Brother

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: ad infintum**

**Chapter 5: The Brother**

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By the twenty-first day, Charlie was strong enough to repeat the shower episode. For the last two days, Mark Danielson had fed him broth and gelatin, letting him sleep a great deal in-between meals. On the morning of Day 21, Danielson set him up in the bathroom again, with towels and clean clothes and more tiny shampoos and soaps. This time when Charlie emerged, there was oatmeal and a photo album on the kitchen table.

Charlie fell into the oatmeal gratefully. It wasn't much, but it was certainly more substantial than chicken broth, and he was hungry. Beside him, his captor grunted his way through his own bowl, then shoved it aside and picked up the album.

He hugged it to his chest and began speaking in a gentle and companionable voice. "You no longer have ties to the horrid and immoral beasts with whom you have been dwelling. You understand now that Alan Eppes, Don Eppes, Amita Ramunajan – they hold no claim on you."

Charlie nodded, looking over a spoonful of oatmeal at Danielson. "I was a victim of their impure excesses," he agreed. "I am free, for the first time."

Danielson smiled. "Yes. And to celebrate, I shall choose a new name for you. You shall no longer be known as Charles Eppes; but as Jeff. Jeff Danielson. I will care for you, and protect you, and share my identity with you." He leaned forward, holding Charlie's gaze, and spoke seriously. "I will be your brother. It is what you have always wanted."

Charlie felt almost too grateful for words, and struggled not to cry into his oatmeal. "Thank-you," he whispered, inadequately. "I do not deserve such mercy."

"And yet it is mine to give," countered Danielson, settling back in his chair again. He opened the photo album and placed it on the table between them. "Let me show you how you looked when you were a little boy."

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On Day Twenty-One, when LAPD pulled their man off Danielson's apartment, Don and Colby began their own survelleince. Discussions with LAPD has resulted in a commitment to send someone past the complex at least once per shift, and in-between appointments with Bradford, Don would spend hours on stake-out himself. He refrained from living in his SUV, outside the apartment, for the same reason he was seeing Bradford: for Alan. His father had aged remarkably in the three weeks Charlie had been gone; he seemed fragile and lost, and when he asked Don to do something these days, Don was not even tempted to refuse. He was grateful that Amita was spending so much time at the house when she wasn't teaching, and that Larry was flyiing in for the weekend. It made him nervous to leave the old man alone, and it raised his blood pressure to dangerous heights the longer he sat inactive in the Craftsman. After he was done for the day at the Bureau, Colby would add his presence; both to the drive-bys, and to the house. Don was almost shamefully taking advantage of everyone he knew -- and he wasn't stopping, either. Not until Charlie was home.

Bradford made time to see Don three times a week after the alcohol poisoning incident, with plans to taper the visits over the next month. First they would reduce their schedule to twice a week, and then once. When they reached that level, they would re-evaluate. Don found the plan depressing, at best. How had it come to this? When had he become such a basket case? Both Charlie and the Danielsons were always on his mind, and it was torture to speak of convoluted behaviors and mind-sets and substitutional coping mechanisms. The worst part was when Bradford suggested he think about making some long-term goals. The thought of a life without Charlie, long-term, settled in his gut like a rock.

Dr. Bradford sat silently for a while and interpreted the look on his silent patient's face. "Have there been any leads in your brother's case?" he asked gently.

Don shook his head morosely. "Not from the beginning, really. He just...disappeared. Forensics got nothing from his car." He rubbed a tired hand over his face. "Hell, Danielson isn't even officially a 'suspect'. There's no evidence linking him to Charlie's disappearance, so we can only list him as a 'person of interest'."

For a moment Bradford thought his patient was mixing his issues in a potentially volatile Molatov cocktail. He raised his eyebrows. "Danielson? Isn't that the name of the agent who died?"

Don grimaced. "Yeah. Apparently he had a brother. Guy refused to come to Jeff's service, and his own father describes him as a bit of a fruitcake; plus, he said the brother was talking shit about me. Based on that, and the fact that he has also disappeared, he's the closest thing to a lead we've got." He snorted. "Hell, at this point, even if we found him we couldn't keep him; not unless he happened to be holding a gun to Charlie's head at the time."

Bradford nodded, tenting his fngers under his chin. "You're an experienced field agent," he began. "If Charlie was not your brother -- if it was the twenty-fourth day of a stranger's disappearance, with virtually no leads in that time, what would you tell his family?"

Don laid his head back on the overstuffed easy chair he occupied and blinked at the ceiling. Unable to catch the first tear, it rolled its lonely way down the crease of distress so recently grooved into Don's face, and dripped unfettered from his chin. When he spoke, his voice held despair, and reluctance. "I know what I would think," he finally admitted. "I'd be careful to say all the right things, but I would think _'That poor bastard'_, and the most I would hope for would be closure for the family. A body to bury."

Bradford did not respond to that for quite some time, and they sat in silence. Slowly he closed the notebook he was holding, jotting notes for Don's file, and laid it on the couch beside him. "Do you want that for yourself, and your father?"

Don's head jerked up and his eyes shot fire at the doctor. He leaned forward in the chair then, almost touching Bradford's knees with his own. "I will never do that to another family member again. I don't care if it's been six hours, six weeks, six months, six years. You don't give up," he asserted stringently. "Not until you have to."

Bradford smiled. "Excellent advice, Agent Eppes."

And so tey didn't give up; but they went on.

Larry stayed for two days, bringing love from Megan and an odd mixture of normalcy and heartbreaking incompleteness to the house. Watching him and Amita occupy the same space made Don and Alan, at least, and probably Colby too, keep looking for the missing piece. When Larry left to return to his new life -- on the same day David was due to return from Chicago -- Alan pulled himself up by the bootstraps and announced he was volunteering at the soup kitchen again, starting with lunch. Don didn't know whether to be happy, insulted or terrified, and spent most of his session with Bradford deciding he was all three.

Charlie had been gone for thirty days when Don called Wright and told him he would be back the next week.

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"You understand the truth now," Danielson smiled as he joined Charlie on the floor in front of the cabin's small wood-burning fireplace. He passed the professor a fresh-baked brownie, which Charlie quietly accepted, and continued. "I'm very proud of you for realizing that it is your choice, what you do with your life. You have learned to deny the chance of circumstance, and choose your own past. Your own present. Your own future."

Charlie bit into the warm brownie and thoughtfully masticated a walnut. After swallowing, he responded. "I didn't know life could be this...free," he confided. "So many years I wasted, trying to live up to their expectations."

Danielson nodded, serious. "They were wrong -- all of them -- to force their ideas on you." He smiled again, and clapped Charlie on the back. "But you have seen the light, now. It is no longer of any consequence."

Charlie smiled shyly and concentrated on finishing his brownie. When he had, Danielson broached another subject. "I believe you are ready now, Jeff. It is time for us to go back."

Charlie blanched and looked at him worriedly. "What?" He looked around the cabin a little frantically. "What's wrong with here?" He turned frightened eyes back to Danielson. "Mark, we're happy here!"

Danielson moved to grasp the back of Charlie's neck and pulled his face toward his own until their foreheads were touching. "It will be all-right, Jeff. I love you; you know that, right?" Charlie nodded into Mark's forehead, and he continued softly. "You trust me, don't you?"

"Y..yess," Charlie whispered, and Danielson kissed him lightly on the cheek and then released him.

He turned his attention back to the fire. "We'll come back here, someday. Or buy our own little place like it, after we work for a few years and get the money. I only rented this place for a month, and we've been here a few days past that already. We have to leave before the owner comes up from town and figures that out." He smiled again. "Besides, you're ready."

Charlie babbled happily. "I can give you the money now! I can sell my house, and I have some in the bank..." His voice broke off in dismay at the thunderous look Mark shot his way.

"No!", the older man shouted, and Charlie shrank back. "That money represents evil gain from an evil world, and it will not be allowed to infect the truth!" _Besides,_ he thought silently to himself, _we must go back for your brother to understand what he has lost; and that he has lost it to me. He must be punished!_

Charlie drew into himself and hung his head, trying to make his body into as small a target as possible. "I'm s-sorry," he stuttered, knowing that retribution would be swift and painful. "I'm sorry, Mark!"

Danielson considered kicking or slapping him, but knew they would be back in L.A. soon, and he couldn't afford to leave any marks on the younger man just now. In the end, he settled for psycological torture. He stood abruptly and spoke down to Charlie, disgust and distate apparent in every word. "You disappoint me," he ridiculed, circling the ball of Eppes. "You need a reminder."

Charlie tightened his grip around his knees and shook his head. "No, please, no, no..."

Danielson leaned down and pulled Charlie up with a powerful yank on the back of his shirt. He ignored Charlie's cries as he shoved him, stumbling, toward the back door.

Might as well get one more night's use out of that smokehouse.

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The timing, then, was ironic.

Colby invited David along for his evening drive-by of Danielson's apartment on the thirty-third day. Agents Sinclair and Eppes had both returned to active duty that day, and the first thing Sinclair had done was volunteer to join the rotation. He rode with Colby that night, to break in; and also because Alan Eppes was having a welcome-home dinner in his honor at the Craftsman afterwards. The older man had come by the bullpen early that afternoon and insisted. David had been so taken aback by the amount of aging Alan had done since they had last seen each other, that he had accepted right away, even though the patriarch Eppes was promising chicken enchiladas and David had embraced a vegetarian lifestyle during his time with his sister. He would eat what he could; the menu didn't matter. After this last month -- watching his sister battle breast cancer; and seeing what Charlie's disappearance had done to everyone back home; not to mention the death of a team member -- David knew that all that mattered was that they be there for each other. However, and whenever they could.

Now, he wrinkled his forehead in confusion and questioned his partner. "You said 417, right?"

Colby glanced to his right, confirming. "417-B, yeah..." His eyes widened when they registered the blue Saturn SL2, and he slammed on the brakes, causing the vehicle behind him to swerve around him, driver laying on the horn and flipping a finger as he passed. "Holy shit," Colby breathed, pulling toward the curb opposite the aparment complex. "He's home!"

As badly as they wanted to storm the apartment and demand Charlie right away, Colby and David managed to put the brakes on each other long enough to route a call through dispatch to LAPD, and another to Don. They watched the car and the apartment nervously for seventeen minutes before a unit from LAPD joined them. Even though Don had not arrived yet, they decided to approach without him. While the agents were waiting for LAPD, David had raised the possibility of finding something terrible inside -- an injured Charlie, or worse -- and now they hurried to secure the scene and prevent Don from seeing anything he didn't have to.

Colby fingered the weapon holstered on his hip in agitation while the two agents and two detectives awaited an answer at the door. He knew Danielson was officially just "a person of interest", but every fiber of his being wanted to blast the asshole's face off as soon as he opened the door, and ask questions later.

Only David's calming presence kept him from doing just that when the door finally swung open, revealing Mark Danielson, who regarded the quartet on his doorstep with surprise. "My goodness," he said smoothly. "You all look so official."

The two detectives held up their shields, and the F.B.I. agents followed suit. "Mark Danielson?" asked the lead detective. At Danielson's nod, he continued. "LAPD. We've been searching for a missing person, a Dr. Charles Eppes. Are you familiar with the name?"

Danielson started to shake his head, and then his eyes focused on the agents and narrowed. "I believe an Agent Eppes was my brother's supervisor," he admitted. "I can't be sure they're spelled the same way, but it seems like quite a coincidence."

Colby barreled into the conversation, trying to push in-between the LAPD detectives. "No shit, Sherlock. We got witnesses heard you dissing Agent Eppes big-time."

Danielson smiled. "Freedom of speech, gentlemen. I was understandably upset when my younger brother was killed so brutally." He took a step backwards and waved an arm expansively. "I assure you, I have nothing -- and no-one -- to hide, here. I took a prolonged vacation after my brother's death, and have just returned. You're welcome to look for your... missing person. My home is at your disposal."

No-one had to be asked twice.

One of the detectives stood with Danielson at the door while the other three quickly searched the small one-bedroom apartment. It was soon apparent that Charlie was not there, and Colby's heart fell a little further with every room that was cleared. All of this time, and Danielson had been their only lead. Now, it looked like there was no lead, after all. It was a dejected group that made their way back through the door. One of the LAPD detectives stopped and glared at Danielson while the other returned to their vehicle to call in a report. "We'll still want to see you downtown," he started. "You won't be cleared until we know where you've been, what you've been up to for the last month."

Danielson sighed, put-upon. "Very well. I have a job interview at a diner this evening. I'm sure you've discovered by now that I am a line cook by trade. I was so distraught when my brother died that I quit my last job and took off. Now I must secure another. Unless you gentlemen intend to arrest me, I would like to keep that appointment." He smiled ingratiantingly. "Of course, you're welcome to follow me."

Don's SUV screeched to a halt while the detective was handing Danielson a business card. "First thing in the morning," he grumbled, "this address."

Don came bolting up the sidewalk, his face a mask of fury, and Colby assumed fullback stance, grabbing an arm. "He's not here, Don. He's not here...Dave, help me..."

It took both agents to hold Don back while he shouted at the now-sneering Danielson. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BROTHER? Talk to me, you sniveling sunofabitch!"

Danielson let the smile fall of his face, repaying hatred for hatred. "What did you do to mine, Agent Eppes?" he countered in a low hiss. He reached for the open door of his apartment, preparing to slam it. "You have nothing to hold me on, and at this point you are all trespassing. Remove yourselves from my property at once."

Don's gutteral, nonsensical shout knew no words, and the LAPD detective was just about to lend his bulk to the scuffle on the sidewalk when his partner approached from the other direction, a shell-shocked look on his face. Don felt Colby's grip change and followed his eyes, turning slightly to look at the other man.

"You're not going to believe this," the detective began. "Charles Eppes just walked into headquarters downtown. He's at Parker Center right now."

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End Chapter 5


	6. The Buried

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 6: The Buried**

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Charlie waited patiently while the desk officer disseminated information about concealed weapons permits to the gentleman in front of him, and then advanced to a place a little farther down the counter when a younger officer rose tiredly from a desk and shuffled up to the other side. "Yeah? Help you?"

Charlie withdrew his wallet during the walk, and when he reached the desk he laid his license in full view. "I'm Dr. Charles Eppes. I understand I'm considered a 'missing person'." He smiled disarmingly. "But as you can plainly see; here I am."

The officer raised an eyebrow. The civilian seeking a CWP walked away, clutching a pamphlet, and the first officer walked down the counter. He spoke to his comrade. "Check the board, Billy. If you find something, see who's on it and get the primaries up here." Apparently a junior officer, Billy scurried to do what he was told, suddenly full of energy, while the first man kept a silent eye on Charlie.

After several minutes, the professor began to get impatient. "I could come back another time," he offered, and an elevator dinged behind him.

The desk officer let his gaze stray, and straightened a little. "Hold your horses," he ordered. "I think these are your guys."

Charlie turned and watched two plain-clothes detectives approach; a 'Mutt-and-Jeff' team -- one tall and thin, the other portly and shorter. The taller man spoke first. "I'm Detective Aaronson, Dr. Eppes." He tilted his head at his partner. "Detective Simpson. Please come with us."

Charlie smiled, but didn't budge. "Actually, I'd rather not. I'm simply here to inform you that the missing person report was filed in error. As you can see I am perfectly healthy, and standing right in front of you."

The detectives exchanged a glance, and then the shorter man took over. "Dr. Eppes, we have the right to determine where you have been all this time. If a false report was filed, you may be required to pay restitution. A great deal of money was spent searching for you."

Charlie didn't blink. "I hardly filed the report myself, Detective. My identification clearly states that I am of legal age; if I feel the need for a personal retreat, that should be my business, don't you think? It seems to me that your issues are with whoever filed the report."

The stout fellow began to turn red in the face. "Listen, you blew off your job, your family, your girlfriend -- you expect us to believe all that was voluntary?"

Charlie's smile faded and his dark eyes glinted. "I do." He looked from one man to the other. "Unless I am mistaken, you have no right to hold me here; to question me. I have broken no laws. I simply came here to do you a favor, and close a case that never should have been opened. Either you both step aside this moment -- or allow me to summon an attorney."

"I'm an attorney!" People were beginning to gather, listening to the conversation, and the detectives immediately recognized the particularly deplorable ambulance-chaser who liked to hang around the lobby and trap potential clients. Detective Aaronson sighed and shifted to one side. "Let 'im go, Simpson," he ordered. "He's right. Didn't file the report himself."

Simpson place his hands on his pudgy hips and glared at Charlie, refusing to move. Still, the thin Eppes was able to easily squeeze between the two men. Retrieving his wallet and identification from the counter, he replaced both in the back pocket of his jeans, and nodded curtly as he left. He had navigated his way back out of the building, and was halfway down the sidewalk, when a breathless Don plowed into him at full speed, nearly taking them both down.

"Oh my God," Don gasped, wrapping his arms tightly around his brother. "Charlie, Charlie..." He moved one hand so that it cupped the back of the curly head. Colby and David, plus the two detectives who had met them at Danielson's house, lurked respectfully in the background. Eventually, Don pulled away far enough so that he could grip Charlie's face in both hands. "Buddy," he said, choking back tears, "are you all right?"

"Please let go of me," Charlie asked quietly, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

Concerned, Don dropped his hands and took half a step back. It killed him to give his brother that small amount of space, but he did it. "Charlie?"

The younger Eppes, once free of Don's embrace, stepped back himself, creating even more space between them. "I no longer repond to that name," he informed them, and Colby took a step closer, eyes narrowing.

Don just looked confused. "What?"

Charlie explained. "I have chosen my own identity, and will no longer be tied to one assigned to me by immoral reprobates."

The breath left Don as if he had been slapped, and he found himself having to gasp for air. "Mom and Dad gave you that name!" he finally protested. "What are you talking about?"

Charlie side-stepped down the sidewalk. "I will no longer live my life according to your rules," he answered. "I have the legal right to sever all ties to the Eppes family, and live as I desire."

Don turned and looked helplessly at his fellow agents. David looked as stunned as he felt, but Colby was frowning, staring grimly at Charlie, and he suddenly spoke. "What is your name now?"

Don interrupted before Charlie could answer, looking back at the younger man. "Listen, Chuck, I'm sure you've been through hell. Let me take you home. Dad is waiting. Amita will be there soon; she comes over every night."

Charlie shook his head and took another step. "You have no right to touch me," he warned, as Don began to follow.

"Jeff." Colby said the name calmly, without inflection, but Charlie's head automatically turned toward him. Don saw the action and paled so dramatically that David moved a little closer, so that he could catch him if he went down.

Colby raised one hand in a gesture of peace. "We can give you a lift to wherever you want to go."

Don shoved David aside and lunged for Charlie, sparing a sideways glare for Granger. "The hell you say! Charlie, please!" Charlie was backing away further for every step Don advanced, so he finally stopped and pleaded with his brother. "Buddy, don't you know who I am?"

Charlie's expression did not change. "Of course I know who you are. Agent Don Eppes." His eyes moved to David, lurking behind Don, and Colby, just a little to the left. "These gentlemen are Agents Sinclair, and Granger." He looked back to Don, his voice detached, almost monotone. "I recognize you, Don. I just no longer _choose_ you." Don's mouth gaped and Colby drew closer to David, turning slightly to speak into his ear quietly, pressing something into his hand. Charlie addressed the two LAPD detectives still in the background. "Your coworkers inside said that I can go; I am a citizen of this city and I do not want to be harassed by this man, or anyone else."

A low growl started in Don's throat. "There is no way on God's earth…" He had started to move toward Charlie again, but Colby latched onto his arm, motioning for the detectives to help him.

"He's right, Don, you can't stop him." Don bellowed and Charlie turned his back on them all, and continued down the sidewalk. The two detectives and Colby found it hard work to hold Don back. The scuffle attracted the attention of most of the foot traffic headed in and out of Parker Center, and soon there was a small crowd watching the struggle. At the street, Charlie quickly hailed a cab and climbed inside, refusing to look back. He would not have seen much, even if he had; civilians and uniformed policemen alike surrounded his brother.

Even if he had looked, Charlie would not have seen David break away from the group and head for the parking garage. And Charlie wasn't looking. He was breathing deeply, eyes closed, concentrating on getting home to Mark, where it was safe.

He never did realize he was being tailed.

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Colby paced the kitchen of the Craftsman.

The three sitting at the table were in various stages of duress. Amita was crying, silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Alan was quiet; white and barely breathing. Don's eyes were glued on Granger, who had almost had to knock him out to get him here without Charlie. Colby had explained some of his theory in the SUV, and then helped him break the news to the others. "Tell them what you told me," Don ground out at last.

Colby looked almost apologetically at Alan, then Amita. Finding both faces too difficult to regard, he settled for his shoes. "I think Charlie's been brainwashed," he started. "I saw this kind of thing in Afghanistan. Prisoners of War have been subject to this kind of thing since the Korean Conflict."

Alan found his voice, but spoke dully, as if he knew he wouldn't like the answer. "Then why can't we get him back, if you know that man did this?"

Colby sighed, and looked back at Alan, who was studying the table. "Because everything Charlie said is true. He's an adult, of legal age to make his own life choices. Unless those choices involve something illegal – like, say, when Patty Hearst helped the SLA commit armed robbery – we can't touch him. Nobody witnessed Danielson doing anything; Charlie's probably on his way back to the apartment right now. David's tailing him; he'll let us know where Charlie goes."

Amita sniffed loudly. "I still don't understand…."

Colby started pacing again. "This kind of thing happens all the time with cults, too. Even if someone's family manages to track him down, legally there's not a lot they can do to get him back." He stopped and glanced apprehensively at Alan. "I don't suppose you have Power of Attorney?"

Alan looked at him, confused. "What?"

Colby shrugged. "It's not uncommon for someone in Charlie's situation to give all he owns away. If you had P of A, you might be able to get in a pre-emptive strike; put the house back in your name, stuff like that."

Alan looked horrified and angry at the same time, and sat up straighter in his chair. "How is someone 'brainwashed'? What did that man do to him?" Colby was spared answering when his cell sounded. He unclipped the phone from his belt and moved to the corner of the kitchen, speaking quietly. Alan watched him for a moment, and then turned his head to his eldest son, repeating the question. "What did he do to Charlie?"

Amita sniffed again, and Don leaned to pat her awkwardly on the arm. He had studied brainwashing techniques at Quantico; not so that he could use them himself -- the class was taught with the intent of preparing agents for such tactics being used against them, especially when working undercover. He had a much better understanding than he wanted to have, and he tried to avoid the question. "He looked all-right, Dad. If there was anything…physical…." Alan moaned, and Don hurried on. "I didn't see any sign of that. No bruising, or cuts. He didn't limp."

Colby flipped his cell shut and strode to the table, rejoining the group there. He pulled out the empty chair – Charlie's chair – and sat down, straddling it backwards. "David said the cab took him straight to Danielson," he confirmed.

Don swore. "What are we going to do? We can't leave him there, and we can't take him out!"

Colby leaned forward a little to lay the phone on the table, and looked Don square in the eye. "We can take him out," he contradicted. Alan and Amita turned their eyes to him as well, but Colby kept looking at Don. "We just can't do it legally, but we can do it."

The only sound in the kitchen for almost thirty seconds was Amita's stuffed-up breathing. "What are you suggesting?" Don finally asked.

Colby smiled grimly. "I'm suggesting we tail them for a week; maybe two. Give Danielson time to feel safe and settle in; start leaving Charlie home alone. During that time, we do all the things that Danielson would expect. Send in Alan, and Amita, to try to talk to Charlie. Maybe we even bring Larry back. He did this mostly to get to you, Don – so you let him believe that he has; let him see that this is killing you." Don swallowed; it was, so that shouldn't be a problem. Colby went on. "We establish a pattern – when will Charlie be alone, and where? We pick the right place, the right time – and the right panel van – and then we grab him."

Alan was aghast. "What? We kidnap Charlie? Why?"

Colby looked at him grimly. "Because this is war, Alan."

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End, Chapter 6


	7. The Beatitudes

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 7: The Beatitudes**

"_**Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted." Matthew 5:4**_

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Alan and Amita were on Danielson's porch before 8 the next morning; neither had slept the night before, and it was all Don could do to keep them from storming the place at midnight. The argument that finally convinced them to hold off, was when Don pointed out that Charlie would be further traumatized by a moonlight raid. He had no idea how right he was.

Figuring that Mark Danielson knew all there was to know about him, and would recognize the SUV, Don had thought to trade vehicles with David the night before, and drove them to the apartment in the other agent's Ford F150 pickup. The cab was crowded with three people, but Don thought it was his best shot at staying unnoticed on the street. David had been out of town when Danielson was planning his revenge, and chances were he didn't know what Sinclair was driving.

So he dropped Alan and Amita off almost a block before they reached the apartment, and parked immediately when he saw a space at the curb. Then he turned on his father's video camera, zooming to telephoto, and watched the show. There would be no audio – it had been an easy call that wiring either Alan or Amita would be taking too much of a risk – but at least he could get another look at Charlie. He hoped.

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Alan stood closest to the doorbell, and he reached out his right hand and pushed. Amita was to his immediate left, and her right hand clutched his left as they waited for a response. Any time at all was too long; so Alan jabbed the bell a second time.

They glanced at each other nervously as the sound of heavy footsteps grew closer. Alan winked at Amita and attempted a smile, failing miserably. He was fully facing the door again when it swung inward, leaving just the screen mesh between them and the stranger.

Alan squeezed Amita's hand, cleared his throat, and began. "My name is Alan Eppes. This is Amita Ramanujan. We have reason to believe my son is staying here, and we'd like to see him."

Danielson feigned interest. "His name?"

"Charlie," answered Amita, at the same time that Alan spoke.

"Charles. Charles Eppes."

Danielson casually crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head. " 'Eppes', you say? I'm afraid you must have the wrong address. There's no-one here using that name."

Alan grit his teeth and nearly choked on the response that came immediately to mind. Don had warned them that this might happen, though, and Amita was ready. During the night she had printed an 8 x 10 of Charlie from a digital she had taken herself, the year before at a faculty picnic. Relaxed and smiling, squinting into the camera, Charlie's photo had made her cry the night before; but now she held it up to the screen door and displayed her memories for Danielson. "This is his picture," she started. "He is probably using a different name."

"Ah," he murmured, after regarding the glossy for a few moments. "Yes, that man lives here. But I have only known him as 'Jeff'."

Alan bit back a growl as Amita moved the picture away from the screen. He couldn't help himself – he glared at Danielson with all the hatred of a father kept from a child against his will. "I don't care if he's calling himself Wyatt Earp," he said hotly. "I would like to see my son."

The hint of a smile played at Danielson's mouth, making Alan even more irate. "I just can't take your word for it that you're his father," he teased. "You could be anyone." Alan started to protest, but Danielson held up a hand and smiled benignly. "Yet I sympathize with you. A man looks for his son; it would touch anyone. I shall let Jeff make the decision." He half-turned and called the hated name, and soon lighter steps were heard approaching the door. In spite of himself, Alan smiled widely, shooting another glance at Amita, shaking and pale on the doorstep.

He took her hand again and looked back at the door in time to see Charlie step up slightly behind Mark. His son let blank eyes sweep over them before he spoke to Danielson. "What is it, Mark?"

Danielson draped a possessive arm around Charlie, and Alan came close to ripping the screen off its hinges. "Jeff, this gentleman claims you are his son. The young woman has a photograph of you; she seems anxious to make contact as well." Charlie let his eyes stray back to the duo on the porch. "Would you like to speak to them?"

Charlie's eyes glinted for a moment, and Alan thought it was in familiarity, in recognition; but he soon found out it was something else. "In my former life, I knew these people," his son began. "Before I understood how immoral and unrighteous they are, I even allowed myself to dwell with them." He looked away, an expression of distaste on his face, and shuddered. "They disgust me, now. Now that I know the truth."

Alan had heard enough. "Charlie! Son, come out here and talk to us – or let us come in!"

Charlie looked back at him coldly. "This man," he informed Danielson, "participated in all manner of civil unrest. He has no respect for the land, or the law. He ridicules his own son for his law enforcement career; and the _only_ use he ever had for the other son was slothful pride. He sold him to the highest bidder at the tender age of 13, and has collected dividends ever since." Alan stood stunned, his mouth hanging open, while Charlie turned his gaze to Amita. "The woman? Nothing but a filthy whore." Amita gasped, and Charlie looked back up at Danielson. "Don't let them in here."

Mark Danielson sneered, stepped back, and caught the edge of the door with his free hand; one was still protectively around Charlie. "Sorry, folks," he said, in a voice that clearly indicated he was not. "Jeff doesn't want to talk to you. As of now, you're trespassing. I'll give you two minutes to step away from my home; after that, I call the police."

And then, he slammed the door in their faces.

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William Bradford listened to Don's recounting of the incident with displeasure, and concern. His patient was understandably beside himself. His brother had been missing for over a month, and all signs pointed to terrible things being done to him, over that month. It was obvious that the man had probably been brainwashed, and that didn't happen without various forms of torture and "reward" that Bradford did not even care to contemplate.

Don had managed to relay the story of his own meeting with Charlie in a fairly stoic, almost detached, voice. While he shared what Alan and Amita had encountered the next day, however, his voice began to thicken with unshed tears. By the time he got around to Charlie's reaction to his dearest friend Larry, who had been on the next plane, the tears began to fall.

It seemed that Larry had also gone to the Danielson home, and Charlie himself had opened the door. "Get the hell off my property," he had said immediately. "I cringe when I think of the years of my life that were wasted with you. You're a self-absorbed, pedantic, corrupt and thoroughly depraved individual, and you're lucky I don't press charges. I remember now, you know. I remember your inappropriate behavior toward a child, when I was your student!"

Charlie was screaming by the end, and Danielson suddenly appeared behind him. "I've summoned the police," he informed the shell-shocked professor. "If I were you, I'd be gone before they arrive."

Larry had returned to the Craftsman barely able to walk, let alone speak, and it had taken Don and Amita almost two hours to get the story out of him.

Now, Bradford frowned. "All of this has taken place since our session last week? You should have called for an emergency appointment."

Don snorted. "Why? Are you going to say something that makes this all better?" When Bradford didn't answer right away, Don continued. "Besides, I've been busy." His eyes glinted steel, and all threat of tears was gone. "We're gonna get Charlie back."

A slight sense of dread pricked at Bradford, and he stood and walked toward the window of his office. "What does that mean?" he asked, his back to Don.

With no further invitation, Don launched into the plan hatched by Colby. He detailed stake-outs, discoveries such as Danielson's job on the night shift at a nearby diner; and Charlie's part-time gig as a dishwasher at that same diner. He told Bradford that Charlie had tried to call Millie and resign from CalSci, but she had only submitted leave-of-absence paperwork, even though she didn't know the whole story. "The less people who know, the better," said Don bitterly.

Bradford turned from the window, his face impassive. "Quite," he intoned drily, moving to stand behind his desk. He opened Don's file and made a notation, then looked up. "You place me in a very difficult position. You understand that I could lose my license."

Don arched an eyebrow. "Why? Don't we have that doctor-patient confidentiality thing?"

Bradford sighed, lifting the small clock on his desk, and holding it so that Don could see it. "You know that if I determine that a patient is a danger to himself or to others, I am required to report it. Agent, at the very least you're talking about a federal law. Kidnapping."

Don started to turn red in the face, leaning to get out of his chair, when Bradford held up a hand to stop him. "That is one reason why I have made a notation in your chart that at 1:30 I suggested you find another therapist."

Don's eyes slid to the clock. It was 2:15. Did that mean that Bradford was going to pretend he hadn't heard anything? He looked back at the doctor, ever the investigator. "_One_ reason?"

Bradford nodded, replacing the desk clock and rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It is generally considered bad practice for a doctor to treat his family, or friends," he explained. "Just as a law enforcement officer should not investigate crimes of which a loved one is a victim." He looked at Don hard. "You understand?"

Don truly didn't, and he looked down at his knees helplessly for a moment before he looked back at the doctor and shrugged. "Yeah," he answered noncommittally.

William Bradford turned back toward the window, walked a few steps and stood staring silently out for so long that Don began to think he had been dismissed. He stood to leave, and the doctor finally began to talk again, softly. Don moved a little closer so that he could hear more clearly. "I consider you a friend, Don. Have I mentioned my hunting and fishing cabin? It's in the hills above L.A., in a very secluded location. The cabin is large; more of a house, really. I had it built for a weekend retreat when I was married, and raising children. I invite friends now; I have found that it is too lonely when I go alone." Don stood stock still, wondering if he was losing his mind, or if Dr. William Bradford was offering him a safe house for Charlie's deprogramming.

Turns out, the doctor was offering more than that. He swiveled again and looked Don in the eye. "I will be taking a vacation, soon. I was going to tell you before we scheduled any more sessions, but that is no longer necessary. I know it's not hunting season; fishing either, for that matter – but sometimes, I crave the peace that the cabin offers anyway. Perhaps you would care to join me?" Don swayed where he stood. Was the doctor offering to _help_ with the deprogramming? Was he really understanding that, or just misreading everything?

Bradford clarified further. "As I said, the cabin is very large. You can invite whomever you want."

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End Chapter 7


	8. The Blink

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 8: The Blink**

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The cabin was indeed secluded.

Bradford had bought most of the available lakefront property, even though he only intended to develop the plot with the best view. Twenty years ago, happily married with small children, the vacant land had been the ultimate playground for them all, parents and children alike. Then the children had grown and settled elsewhere. His wife claimed to have 'grown' as well, and four years earlier she had left for greener pastures. Since there were no dependent child issues to iron out and she had not requested alimony – just a one-time settlement to help her get settled in her new life in Juno, Alaska, of all places – Bill rarely even spoke to her. He didn't come to the cabin very often anymore, either; its memories spoke of happier, simpler times, and he rattled about the four-bedroom lodge restlessly. He was usually thoroughly full of regrets by the time he left, and he knew it was entirely possible he only came here at all to punish himself. He had been considering selling, only hesitating because he knew developers would destroy acres of pine forest and pollute the small lake in their haste to erect twenty homes where there was now only one.

Now, he sat in the spacious great room and contemplated the somewhat motley crew before him. Alan stood and paced, full of nervous energy, even though the others were all sitting. Amita huddled in a ball, feet tucked under her body, quiet on one end of the couch; Larry was on the other. The magestic view available through the bay window just a few feet away was lost on them all, and they regarded the doctor with varying degrees of fear and desperation.

"As you know," he started gently, "I have already gone over a few things with Don, Colby and David. While we are waiting for them to arrive with Charlie, I feel that you should all be prepared as well."

Alan huffed. "Prepared? Are you implying that there is any preparation for a thing like this?"

Bradford smiled, not unkindly. "Actually, Alan, there is – and the better prepared you are, the more smoothly this will go. Please sit down for a moment."

Alan sighed, exchanged glances with the others, and finally settled in a wing chair located in-between Bradford and the couch. "Well?" he demanded.

Bill Bradford nodded once, then continued. "As you are probably all aware, this general geographical area has been a hotbed of cult activities since the early '70s."

Alan frowned and interrupted. "Charlie didn't join a cult – he was taken by a madman!"

Bradford regarded him levelly. "Many parents and families of those who fall into a cult would make the same claim. Wherever you want to draw the lines of distinction, the end result is the same: Charlie was convinced, probably through psychological and physical abuse, to relinquish his very identity, and assume a new one."

That shut Alan up, but now Larry spoke from his corner of the couch. "How does one counter-act such a process?"

The doctor stood and looked at each person individually before he spoke again. "I am much more comfortable with the concept of _exit counseling_," he said, "which is completely voluntary on the part of the brainwashed individual, and a non-violent intervention. This is not a 'normal' scenario, however. As Alan pointed out, Charlie is the single victim of one very disturbed individual, and I concur with Don's assessment that he must be removed forcibly from that atmosphere as soon as possible. You all need to understand, though, that this will not be a _deprogramming_, per se." No-one had any comment, so after a few seconds Bradford went on. "I have planned a mish-mash of techniques," he shared. I could overwhelm you even further by explaining the concept of a 'snap', or 'blink'; and the Strategic Interaction Approach, but the bottom line is that I hope to offer a synergy of treatment for all of you. This will not just be about Charlie – each one of you, as well as the three who are retrieving him now, will all be faced with confronting issues, some no-doubt long-buried."

Alan protested immediately, and a little hotly. "What't the purpose of that? We certainly didn't ask this Danielson to take Charlie and scramble his brains!"

Bradford crossed his arms over his chest, which he puffed out authoritatively in a subliminal message of power. "Of course not. But you must remember, Alan, I have seen both of your sons in private practice. You cannot honestly sit there and expect me to believe that everything between all of you was perfect, your entire lives. _None_ of us can make that claim; hell, my wife left me and my children all live hundreds of miles away. I'm simply telling you that as I attempt to integrate all the different parts of Charlie – pre-Danielson, post-Danielson, core authentic identity – there will be things that rise to the surface. You need to be prepared for that."

Alan seemed to deflate into his chair and Bradford sat back down in his own. "There's more," he said softly. "You're not going to like this part."

Amita laughed shrilly, and all the men turned their attention to her. She blushed and hung her head a little. "Sorry. That just struck me as so absurd."

Bradford smiled briefly. "No doubt. I imagine that none of you have 'liked' any of this." He looked at Alan again, knowing this would be his hardest sell. "For a truly successful intervention," he explained, "Charlie needs to stay here voluntarily. It's bad enough that he will not be allowed to come here on his own volition; I will not allow him to be held here against his will. If any of you attempts to hold him in any way, I will leave the premises and notify local authorities that a former patient has broken into my cabin."

As expected, Alan bolted from his chair, face red with fury. "Charlie _has_ no will, dammit! Why did you bring us all up here for nothing?"

Bradford stayed seated and spoke plainly, his voice carefully modulated, not blinking as he stared up at Alan. "If you have envisioned holding him against his wishes, restricting his food intake, sleep deprivation, you have come very close to imagining what Danielson did to get him in this situation in the first place. Your goal cannot be to fight brainwashing with brainwashing."

A dark cloud of indecision and guilt passed over Alan's face. When he spoke again, it was with soft dejection. "What do we do?"

Bradford stood again and physically led Alan back to his chair; the older man had seemed to forget that he was standing. Then he stood near Alan's chair and looked toward the couch, addressing them all. "It's important that the family establishes a reasonable and respectful level of communication," he answered. "That means when Charlie parrots something Danielson has programmed him to believe --" he dipped his head toward Alan – "such as your 'selling him to the highest bidder' when he was 13, for instance; you need to take it, to a certain extent. Do not reproach him, or justify yourself; simply absorb the accusation and repeat it back to him calmly, with careful questions. _'I understand that you resent the decision your mother and I made to send you to Princeton, Charlie.'_ Use his real name, never 'Jeff'; question him in such a way that he must visualize and reclaim memories, his own personal history and power. _'Which school would you have preferred? Did you enjoy anything at Princeton? How did you meet Larry Fleinhardt?'_ That sort of thing; no doubt, your questions will have to be spurred by his responses." His audience was starting to look a little shell-shocked, and Bradford gentled his voice. "I understand that it will be very difficult to repress your natural reaction." He looked directly at Amita. "I would think being called a 'whore' by someone you love is a pain-filled experience, at best." She swallowed, but didn't look away. He included them all in his next statement. "If at any time you feel you cannot stick to the plan, that you're about to explode, please step away. It's a large cabin, and the property is very peaceful. I'm sure you can find somewhere to stop and regroup for a moment." He grinned wryly. "Of course, I would prefer that you not all leave at once."

He rested a hand on Alan's shoulder for a moment before returning to his own chair and sitting. Settling in, he turned to another subject. "Interspersed with these family moments, I will be presenting Charlie with various information about Mark Danielson. A great deal was learned about him during the search for Charlie, and I intend to let the information speak for itself. I will not try to color Charlie's reaction one way or the other. Colby will also provide testimony regarding brainwashing techniques he observed during his term of service. Eventually, it is my goal for Charlie to blink; to 'snap', if you will. It may be some totally innocuous question or tidbit of information that stimulates him to start thinking on his own again." The trio regarded him solemnly, and Bradford concluded. "The final decision must be Charlie's, and you must try to be prepared for either outcome. If he chooses to come home, I will continue counseling with all involved on an individual and group basis, long-term; long after this intervention is over. Everyone is traumatized in a situation like this, and there is a recovery process." He cleared his throat, and concentrated on Alan. "It is also possible that he will choose to return to Mark Danielson. In that case, I will offer to work with all involved in an effort to improve future family relations."

Alan suddenly looked a decade older. "This could all be for nothing?" he croaked. "We could lose him anyway?"

Bradford smiled grimly. "Trying to save someone you love is never for nothing, Alan. The trying itself – it's everything."

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It was hard to find the time, what with working all day and taking part in the stake-out on Danielson and Charlie during the night, but eventually Colby found himself outside the fence of a tow yard in Hollywood at midnight. He was armed with several pounds of top sirloin, a penlight, a wrench, and a small pair of emergency bolt cutters. The first package of sirloin was infused with half of the Ambien they'd found in Charlie's medicine cabinet. As hoped, the Rottweilers gulped it down in huge chunks, not bothering to chew. Colby just kept ripping into packages of meat, pushing them through the cyclone, for almost half an hour before the dogs both dropped. He regarded them warily for another few minutes before he followed the fence to the back of the lot. He aimed the penlight through the fence, found exactly what he wanted, and moved a few more feet. Then he scaled the fence quickly, hurried to the battered 1970 green Maverick, and started removing the plates.

When Larry flew back to L.A., he had rented a panel van at the airport, using cash and a driver's license David had left for him in a terminal locker. Using a photo a few years old from a CalSci catalog, David had tapped into one of his best informants. About the time the trio of agents discovered Danielson's job kept him away from Charlie for most of the night, Larry became Arnold Tutwiller of Olathe, Kansas. With the further insurance that the misleading plates would lend the van, there was small possibility that Larry would ever be tracked down, even if there were witnesses.

Which they certainly hoped there were not. Even hidden behind full-face ski masks and gloves in a panel van that could not be tracked, it was an unnerving possibility.

Charlie washed dishes at Gretta's, a 24-hour greasy spoon, from 7 to 11 every evening, through the dinner rush. At 11, Danielson showed up to work the night shift as a line cook, and Charlie drove the Saturn back to the apartment. He would be back at the diner bright and early, at 7. The two men would have breakfast together at Gretta's, and then return to their home. During the two weeks that Don, Colby and David had been watching, the only other activity was an occasional run to a nearby market. Seems Danielson was content to hibernate with Charlie for a while.

Charlie Eppes had been back in L.A. for seventeen days, the night that two masked men stole silently through the apartment. They had both been there before, the day Danielson had first come home, so it was easy to find the one bedroom where Charlie lay sleeping. It was so easy, Colby briefly considered that he might be in the wrong line of work. There was only one startled cry, quickly broken off when David shoved a rag in Charlie's mouth. Agent Sinclair quite capably held the struggling professor down for the few seconds it took Agent Granger to inject the syringe full of sedative that Dr. William Bradford had so thoughtfully provided. The only part they hadn't really been ready for was revealed when they wrestled away the sheet and blankets, and discovered that Charlie now slept in his boxers.

Just his boxers.

So, the only true difficulty occurred when they tried to dress a man whose limbs were heavy with sedation; at best, uncooperative. By the time they had him in a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, socks and tennis shoes, Granger and Sinclair were sweating, exhausted – and almost 8 minutes late getting back to the van, which had pulled to the curb directly in front of the apartment five minutes after they had gone in. Agent Eppes, who was sitting at the wheel with his ski mask in his lap, so as to avoid arousing suspicion should anyone glace toward the van, drummed his gloved hands on the steering wheel and considered going inside. He had wanted to all along, but had acquiesced to driving the vehicle when Granger and Sinclair threatened to pull out. They thought he was too volatile, too big a risk; but they were the ones who were 7 and 1/2 minutes late, leaving him and the van idiling like two sore thumbs in the night. A light came on in one of the other apartments, and Eppes swore. They were going to have to abort, and now Danielson would know they were trying to grab Charlie; they would never get another chance.

He swore again, shifted into drive and had his foot halfway to the gas pedal when the panel slid open, scaring him half to death. Granger and Sinclair dumped his unconscious brother unceremoniously into the back of the van, clambering in after him, breathless. "Go!", Colby shouted, pounding the back of the driver's seat while David slid the panel shut again. "Go, go go!"

And so Don did.

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End, Chapter 8


	9. The Bubble

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 9: The Bubble**

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It was a little like summer camp; if you glossed over the unconscious man in the back bedroom.

Bradford raised five children, in his former life, and two of the bedrooms were outfitted with bunk beds for the boys. His daughter's room had matching twin beds, as she would often bring a girlfriend with her to the cabin. David and Colby were in one of the boys' rooms; Alan and Don the other. Bradford and Larry ended up in the twin beds. Amita had been assigned the master bedroom, even though she tried to convince the doctor that she would be perfectly fine sharing the twins with Larry. The final bedroom was the true 'guest room', containing one queen-sized bed; a bathroom was attached.

This was the room in which the agents deposited Charlie when they arrived at the cabin a little after 4 in the morning. They managed to accomplish that feat without waking Larry and Amita, although Alan hovered anxiously, looking like he hadn't slept at all, and Bradford was also present to direct traffic. Alan wanted to sit in the easy chair in the corner of Charlie's room and watch him sleep, even after Bradford assured him his son would be out for quite some time; eventually the good doctor had to pull rank. "Alan, if Charlie sees you when he first wakes up, he'll probably run before we get a chance to talk to him at all," Bradford pointed out.

Alan drew back as if he had been slapped, and Don tossed a barely-concealed glare in Bradford's direction before he took one last look at his sleeping brother and moved to take his father's elbow. "Let's get some sleep while we can, Dad," he suggested. "Something tells me that once Charlie wakes up, we might not be keeping regular hours."

Alan reluctantly agreed, privately certain that he would not fall asleep anyway. Yet once he and Don were settled in the bunk beds, he relaxed. For the first time in a long time, both of his sons were where he knew they were safe. Alan could hear the rhythmic breathing of one, and could imagine the soft snores of the other; before he knew it, he was out.

Bradford listened to the settling of the house – the toilets flushing, the lights switching off – as he sat in the chair in the corner of Charlie's room, and watched him sleep.

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At 8:00 a.m., the smell of percolating coffee wafting temptingly throughout the cabin, Charlie sighed and rolled over onto his stomach.

Bradford sat up, attentive, but there was no further action on the youngest Eppes' part, so he tiptoed out of the room and followed the tantalizing odor to the kitchen, where he found Alan, Amita and Larry. Bradford quietly wished them all a good morning, grabbed a mug of coffee, supplemented that with a toaster pastry from the bags of supplies they had brought with them the day before, and returned to Charlie's room.

The three agents didn't make an appearance until closer to nine; at that point, Bradford suggested that David spell him. He shrugged apologetically, looking at no-one and everyone. "He's got issues with all of you right now," he said. "It's important that the first person he sees be someone he considers non-threatening." Then he took David aside and led him to Charlie's bedroom, giving soft instructions along the way.

When Charlie came to his senses, just before 10, he groaned and rolled onto his back, and lay blinking groggily at the ceiling. He raised a hand to rub at his forehead. "What did I do last night?" he grumbled, and started when David answered him.

"Hey, Charlie. If you have a headache, there's some Tylenol® in the bathroom."

Charlie dragged himself up in the bed a little, searching the perimeter of the room until he spied Sinclair, saying nothing.

"There's some clothes your…some fresh clothes in there, too, and your toothbrush and stuff. Towels. You can take a shower, if you want. Breakfast?"

Charlie finally found his tongue. "My name isn't 'Charlie'," he insisted. "Where am I? Where's Mark? I want Mark!" He was shouting ny the end and had climbed off the bed, standing woozily beside it, one steadying hand on the wall.

The bedroom door opened, and William Bradford stepped inside. "Good morning, Charlie," he smiled. "Welcome to my home. You may use the facilities, if you wish, before you join us all in the great room." Charlie wavered a little and Bradford clucked sympathetically. "A shower will help clear your head."

"Stop calling me that!" Charlie protested, turning slightly as if to make a break for the door – if only he dared take his hand off the wall. "Get my brother! I want my brother!"

In the hallway just outside the room, Don smiled broadly at his father and stepped out from the wall to make his way to Charlie. _I'm coming, Chuck_, he thought, as he passed Colby, who clapped him once on the shoulder. Amita had stayed in the great room, or he might have stopped to kiss her.

As it was, his hand was on the doorknob when Charlie's next shout went through him like a machete to the gut. "My brother Mark will take care of me! He loves me, and he'll get me out of here! MARK! MARK!!"

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Charlie's hair was still dripping when he joined them in the great room half an hour later. "I don't want to stay here," he announced, looking at Bradford.

"You don't have to," the doctor answered, and Don, sitting next to this father on the couch, held his breath and let his hand rest on Alan's knee. As difficult as it was – and for at least two of them, it was the most difficult thing they had ever done – no-one else spoke, but allowed Bradford to handle it. "We are all here because we care about you, Charlie, and we would like to help you. But none of us is going to force anything on you."

Charlie's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Then take me home."

Don had squeezed his own eyes shut, but they popped open at Bradford's response. "Neither are we going to enable your behavior, Charlie. If you want to leave, leave. You should probably be prepared to hitchhike; we're a few hundred miles from L.A. proper. We're all leaving in a few days, and you can easily catch a ride with one of us then. But not before."

Charlie actually stomped his foot. "Call Mark, then! Mark loves me, he'll come and get me!"

Bradford raised an eyebrow. "Mark loves you?"

"Yes!" Charlie stormed.

"How do you know that?" the doctor questioned.

Charlie was fuming. "Because. Because he tells me, every day. _Every day!"_ He let his eyes wander the room, and they settled on Don. He sneered, and looked back at Bradford. "_He_ never does that. Not once has he done that. He's only here now because he can't stand it that someone else _wants_ me for a brother!"

Don opened his mouth to protest, but Bradford shot him a look and the words froze in his throat. "Have you ever told him?" the doctor asked.

Charlie smiled, but it was not an expression that denoted pleasure. "I used to. All the time, until he told me to stop. He said I embarrassed him in front of all his friends, and that I was a baby." Charlie was on a roll, now. "But I could do his homework, that was okay," he continued sarcastically. "Even now, I can hang around the office as long as I'm useful on a case, as long as I don't do something embarrassing…"

Don sat silent, too stunned to move. He wanted to protest, he wanted to deny everything – but he remembered. He remembered when he had told his brother never to say _'I love you'_ again. He hadn't thought about the conversation since; it was no big deal. It was a brother thing, an embarrassed pre-teen picking on a baby brother. Charlie had only been six. Six! How could he remember that conversation all these years later; had his feelings been that badly hurt?

Bradford tried to reign Charlie back into the original conversation. "How else does Mark show you that he loves you?"

"That's easy," Charlie responded. "He lets me eat, and shower, and sleep. He stopped hurting me."

Alan gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth to silence the sound. Bradford continued to quietly question Charlie as if they were the only two in the room with voices. "Do you hear what you are saying, Charlie? _'He lets me eat'; 'He lets me shower'; 'He lets me sleep'_; haven't we done all of those things for you?" For the first time Charlie began to look a little uncertain, and Bradford drove home his point. "You said he loves you because he stopped hurting you, Charlie. He never hurts you?"

Charlie hesitated. "Only…only when I'm bad," he answered. He tried quickly to justify the statement. "I break the rules, sometimes…"

Bradford nodded, then took a careful step closer to Charlie. "I would like very much for you to stay," he said gently. "Just for as long as you want. You can leave whenever you decide to go."

Charlie looked at him for a long moment, flicked his eyes quickly toward Alan, and then let his gaze rest on his shoes, "I'm hungry," he whispered. "Can I still have something to eat?"

Bradford smiled. "Of course. I have all manner of things you can make in a toaster. French Toast, even – would you like some of that?"

Charlie frowned. "That frozen stuff?" Bradford nodded, and Charlie's expression of distaste grew. "My Dad makes much better…" He stopped, and frowned again, confused. "Do you have something else?" he finally asked, then immediately tried to backtrack. "I'm sorry, I don't…I shouldn't…."

"Cereal!" David suddenly bellowed, and everyone looked at him in shock. No-one had spoken besides Bradford and Charlie, and they were all starting to forget that anyone else could. Bradford nodded slightly, so David stood from his perch on the window seat and headed for the kitchen as if this were the most natural scenario in the world. "I saw some cereal," he said to Charlie, pausing as he drew even with the professor. "I'm hungry, too. Let's go." David moved on, and after another moment of hesitation, Charlie followed.

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While Charlie and David were in the kitchen, Don rose from the couch, took Bradford aside a few feet from the others, and confessed. "I did that," he admitted miserably. "What he said. We were just kids! I was 11, and Charlie came to one of my Little League games and came running into the huddle afterwards. _'Donnie, Donnie'_, he was shouting, _'You were so cool! I love you, Donnie!'_ I was embarrassed, and I gave him all kinds of hell and told him never to do that again. He looked like I'd killed a puppy in front of him or something – I knew I'd hurt his feelings, but I never thought…shit, we were just kids!"

Bradford nodded, looking at him with kindness mixed with regret. "You may have to own that," he finally said. "I doubt that Mark Danielson found out about that specific incident; this memory obviously is something Charlie has carried around for a while."

"You told us not to justify," Don stated. "Can I explain something to him?"

Bradford frowned. "I'm not sure I see the distinction." Don lowered his voice and shared his idea, and at length Bradford nodded. He didn't have a chance to speak again, since David and Charlie were coming back into the great room, so Don hoped he was interpreting the motion correctly.

Don wandered to the edge of the great room, pretending to look at a painting, and Charlie cautiously approached the doctor. "I just had some milk," he said. "Is that all right?"

Bradford nodded. "That's fine," he smiled. He gestured toward the living room, where two chairs stood empty. "Would you come and join us?" he asked. "We'd like to ask you some questions."

Charlie looked reluctant, and Don took a step toward his brother. "Charlie," he said, and refused to be discombobulated when his brother did not turn in his direction – nor did he call him 'Jeff' to get his attention; he just went on. "I wanted to apologize. You're right, I said that to you when we were kids, and it was wrong. _I_ was wrong. You didn't deserve that then Charlie, and you don't deserve it now." Charlie still wouldn't look at him; Don took a step closer and his brother glanced at him fearfully and moved closer to Bradford. Don swallowed. "Look. When I got dressed this morning, I did not announce 'this t-shirt is black' to the room at large. It just _is_; it's a fact. Anyone can look at this t-shirt and see that. Maybe I've been wrong – I've probably been wrong…but that's the way I've always felt about my love for you, Charlie. I don't go around announcing it all the time because it just _is_. Anybody can look, and see that it's a fact. I love you, and I want you to stay."

Charlie glanced at him warily, and then back at the doctor. "I might not stay very long," he warned.

William Bradford smiled.

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End, Chapter 9


	10. The Burp

**Title: Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 10: The Burp**

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When Jeff wasn't at the diner by 6:45 a.m., Mark began to get a little concerned.

Over the last few days, since their return to L.A., a pattern had begun emerging. Jeff used the apartment's only bed during the night, while Mark worked; he was back at the diner a few minutes before Mark's shift ended, at 7 a.m., and they would stay at Gretta's for breakfast. They generally shared one breakfast; a free meal every shift was part of Mark's pay, and if they bought fewer groceries they could save more money. They could buy their little piece of land that much faster, so that's the decision Mark made for the both of them. Jeff wasn't a big eater anyway, so he only complained the one time. When Mark didn't let him have anything to eat for the rest of the day, Jeff had decided half of the breakfast special was more than enough. During the day, while Mark slept, Jeff busied himself by keeping the tiny apartment spotless. Sometimes, he would take a nap on the couch before he left for his own part-time gig at Gretta's. Two days ago he had used poor judgment and left the apartment while Mark slept. He had just gone as far as the complex parking lot, where he had washed the Saturn. He had intended it as a nice surprise for Mark to discover when it was time to drive Charlie to work; Mark had actually felt a little badly, when he locked Jeff in the bedroom's dark closet for half a day as punishment. Still, Jeff had to learn to respect the rules.

Now it was 7:15, and Mark sopped up greasy egg yolk with dry toast and worried. Maybe Jeff had done something stupid like that again. Perhaps he, Mark, had been too lenient. He narrowed his eyes and wondered if he should make Jeff quit his job, and handcuff him to the bed whenever he was not home. It might be the only way. By 8:00, he was getting dirty looks from the daytime crew. Gretta's was busy at breakfast, and he was taking up valuable counter space. Mark drained his coffee, shoved his plate aside and slunk out the door, where he loitered on the sidewalk for another 15 minutes, waiting for Jeff to show up with the car. It was almost ten miles back to the apartment, and Mark had worked all night, and was tired. A taxi whizzed by in the street and he thought about that for a moment, but a search of his pockets revealed only a few dollars and some loose change. Neither one of them had worked long enough for a paycheck, yet. He sighed, and headed East.

Even though he wasn't officially hitchhiking, still a young surfer picked him up. After several minutes of a pretentious monologue about the new Bing Silver Spoon(TM) mounted to the top of the vehicle, Mark wished he hadn't. He was still almost a mile from home when he claimed that he had given the wrong address, to an old apartment, and insisted the young man pull over and let him out. His head was ringing most of the remainder of the trip, as he trudged back to the apartment. He was as angry at Jeff as he had ever been by now, but when he spied the Saturn in its space in the complex's parking area, he started muttering to himself and increased his gait to a jog. "He might be sick or something," he worried, scurrying toward his door. "Maybe I should let him have a little more to eat..."

The key to the front door was on the same ring as the key to the Saturn -- inside, with Jeff -- and at first Mark panicked and pounded on the door, calling for his brother. Then he remembered the spare key he kept under the welcome mat, and he scrambled to retrieve the Schlage(TM). His hands were shaking so badly by the time he managed to find the lock, he almost broke the key off inside. Finally, the lock disengaged and Mark rushed inside, still calling for Jeff. Five minutes later, he had examined every room of the apartment twice, and he fell onto the couch in front of the still-open door, breathing heavily.

His heart pounded in time with the mantra in his head. Jeff was gone. Jeff was gone. Jeff was gone.

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"Can you tell me some of the reasons why you have chosen to no longer be Charles Eppes?"

Charlie was perched dangerously on the edge of the window seat David had abandoned in favor of a straight chair, and he pointed at Alan as if identifying a suspect in a courtroom. "He never wanted me," he answered right away. "That's why he made me spend all of my time with tutors, and sent me all the way across the country when I was only 13!" He glanced at Don, and then looked defiantly at Bradford. "He wanted a normal son, a son like Don. Popular, and athletic; tall and handsome. A son to make him proud. He forced me to pursue the path he placed me on when I was still a baby...because he could not accept me for myself. He had to have something to be brag about, to be proud of, even if he believed, deep down, that it was stupid." Alan's face was turning red, but he was holding his tongue. Charlie noted his discomfort and sneered. "What's wrong, old man, does the truth hurt?" He glared at Alan, narrowing his eyes. "Hell, he even kicked his own wife out of the house just so he could get rid of me. He forced her to take me to Princeton, and he forced us both to stay there."

Alan shot off the couch, shaking off Don's restraining hand, and shot daggers at Bradford as he all-but-ran past the doctor, and out the front door of the cabin. Don started to get up and follow him, but thought he saw Bradford shake his head slightly, so he hesitated, and sat in miserable and stunned silence with the rest of them.

"If Mark accepts you for who you are," began Bradford, and Charlie interrupted.

"He does! I told you, Mark loves me!"

Bradford continued as if Charlie hadn't spoken. "If he accepts you for who you are," he continued, "why does he make you become someone else? Why does he call you 'Jeff'?"

"It's a matter of respect," Charlie answered automatically. His voice took on the tone of one reciting a memorized script. "It shows respect for his first brother Jeff, who was viciously murdered while following the instructions of Agent Don Eppes. In turn, it speaks of a great respect for me. Mark feels that I am good enough, special enough, to fill the vacancy left by Jeff. He has even made me remember a childhood we spent happily together. A childhood in which my brother chose to play with me, and be my friend. A childhood in which I was treasured, and wanted, and not an embarrassment."

Don didn't care at this point if Bradford had tried to discourage him or not. It was damn well time he followed his father outside.

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Mark was crying a little, now.

He had searched everywhere. There was no activity at all at the Eppes' Craftsman; nor at Agent Eppes' apartment. The slut was not on campus -- the operator claimed she was out sick -- but there was no-one at her place, either. At first, Mark thought she was there, when he saw her car parked outside. But it had been a simple matter to jimmy the lock, and conduct a thorough search. Neither professor was there.

A call to the his brother's ex-offices had revealed that the entire team was out. He had requested Agents Eppes, Sinclair and Granger, and he had been denied them all. They were temporarily off the duty roster, he was informed, and he was offered another contact. He hung up before an Agent Parker picked up the line.

They were all gone, then.

The father, the brother and his team, the girlfriend...and Jeff. Mark had underestimated his opponent. He had been so sure that Eppes would not circumvent the law he was paid to uphold. It had always been part of the plan to take the small risk; to come back to L.A. and punish Eppes for taking his first Jeff, by making him watch while Mark took his brother in return.

Now, he banged his fist in frustration on the steering wheel and sobbed. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Eppes had taken both of his Jeffs, and Mark was alone. He ignored the passersby who glanced into the vehicle, his gut-wrenching cries floating out the open windows, and felt his heart break. He wanted Jeff. If he could just find Jeff, they'd take off for the hills and they would never come back. It didn't matter anymore, it wasn't important that he see Eppes suffer.

All that mattered was that he and Jeff be together.

Forever.

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Don found Alan at the edge of the lake, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his face a dark study of anger and misery. "Dad?" he whispered reverently.

Alan didn't look at him, but kept gazing across the lake. "I did not 'kick your mother out'," he ground out between clenched teeth. "We decided together that Charlie was too vulnerable to go all that way alone. We did it for him, dammit." He whirled, suddenly, and his eyes flashed darkly. "Did you know that we flipped a coin?"

Don shook his head. "What?"

Alan nodded. "When we decided that one of us had to go. We both had good jobs, we both wanted to stay here for you and we both wanted to be there for him -- even though he was adamant that he could go by himself. In the end, we flipped a coin."

Don expelled a long breath. Wow. For years, he had resented Charlie for taking his mother away during a particularly vulnerable time in his own life; would he have been any happier, if it had been his dad? And now that he was an adult, looking back, what would he think if the two parents faced with that decision had abandoned a child that way, sent him alone across the country to fend for himself? "I know you did the best you could," he finally said lamely. "I'm sorry if I gave you a hard time."

Alan sighed, and looked back out over the water. "I know Dr. Bradford told us to be prepared for things like that, and I was doing okay -- until he brought your mother into it." He glanced sideways at his eldest. "Did you just come after me, or did he move on to you?"

Don shrugged. "Got tired of hearing how much better Mark Danielson is at being his brother than I ever was," he admitted.

Alan nodded, somewhat sadly. "I want to tell you that none of this matters, that Charlie doesn't really believe these awful things...but what was it Bradford said? 'Long-term issues will be discovered'. Maybe he does."

The stood silently for a moment, shoulder-to-shoulder, before Don responded, firmly. "I don't believe that," he said. "I mean, even if Danielson somehow tapped into some deeply buried insecurities, he twisted everything around and made it worse." He squared his shoulders and turned around, prepared to lead the way back to the cabin. "I won't believe it," he repeated. "I grew up in the same house Charlie did." He grinned at his father. "Okay, so it wasn't perfect all the time. But it wasn't hell, either. In fact, most of it was pretty good. We just have to find the Charlie who remembers that."

Alan smiled, and reached up to ruffle his son's hair. "I'm ready if you are."

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"Given your explanations, let's say that I can understand your desire to distance yourself from your father and brother. Can you explain to me why you can't just do that? Why is it important to stay in L.A. and cause them pain every chance you get?"

Charlie opened his mouth, looking at Bradford and away from Don and Alan, who had returned to the couch. He remembered begging Mark to stay up in the woods, pleading that they not come back. Why couldn't they do that, again? "I...we..." He blinked, and it started to come back to him. "Mark says we need money. We're here to earn money."

Bradford arched an eyebrow, but Larry beat him to the punch. "I was given to understand that Mark is a cook, at a diner," he pointed out. "Surely those exist in places other than L.A. Places much less expensive to live, no doubt."

Charlie looked out the window, frowning. What was wrong with that logic? There must be something wrong with that logic.

Amita interrupted his train of thought. "It wasn't as if he was returning to an existing job," she pointed out. "Didn't he get a new job, when you returned to L.A.?"

Larry chimed in again. "Not to mention, you have considerable assets you could pass on, correct?"

Well, that part Charlie remembered. He looked back triumphantly. "It's all evil money," he declared. "Mark wants us to live honestly, without ties to a world that is reprehensible, and wrong."

Colby stood from his wing chair near the fireplace and stretched, changing the subject. "Did Mark tell you he did time?"

Charlie turned his head toward Granger and frowned. "What? You're wrong."

Colby shook his head. "The brig, actually -- he used to be in the Navy, stationed at Guantanamo in Cuba. His unit was helping to build the military prison there, in '01 and '02." He was walking toward the coffee table in front of the couch. When he reached it, he leaned and lifted a folder. "Record's sealed, so I don't know exactly what he did. But he served 90 days in the brig, and then was dishonorably discharged. Probably why he can't get a decent job now."

Charlie stood. "You're crazy," he stated calmly."My brother was never in the military."

"Here," Colby responded, tossing the folder a few feet to Charlie, who automatically caught it. "It's all in there. Pictures of him in uniform. Copy of the Discharge." Hands empty now, he placed them on his hips. "I'm thinking that's where he learned military brainwashing techniques. Did he use restraint, Charlie? Unrelenting noise? I'll bet he denied you food, and water. Basic hygiene."

Charlie paled, and the weight of the manila folder pulled him all the way to the floor, and then fell out of his hand. He leaned against the window seat and looked dully at the photographs that had spilled out of the file, onto the floor surrounding him. In dress blues, Mark smiled back at him in a boot camp graduation photo; in khakis, clutching an MR-16, Mark squatted in the front line of his unit, staring unsmiling at the camera.

Charlie sought out William Bradford's kind and impassive face across the room. "I don't understand," he said in a voice full of fear, and confusion. "I don't understand," he repeated, scrambling awkwardly to his feet. "I don't feel well. Can I go lie down for a while?"

"We can take a break," Bradford agreed. "You rest in your room, We'll see about scrounging up some lunch."

"I get to eat again?" Charlie asked, surprised, and Alan felt his heart break. Again.

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End, Chapter 10


	11. The Bashing

**Title: Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 11: The Bashing**

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When David used one hand to rap on Charlie's door, balancing two turkey sandwich plates in the other, there was no answer.

_Shit_, he swore under his breath, ready to sound the alarm. Charlie had taken off. They had pushed him too far, too fast, and he...he was huddled on the floor in the far corner of the room, staring right at him as David pushed the door open. "Sorry, Charlie," Sinclair said softly. "I knocked. I thought maybe you...were asleep." He focused on the food in front of him, and walked forward a few feet to set one of the plates on the edge of the bed. "I made you a sandwich."

Charlie eyed the plate hungrily, and shifted in his corner. "I can have that? I didn't mess up the bed; I was careful."

So was David, as he pulled the door nearly shut behind him and sat down on the floor himself, settling his own sandwich in front of his crossed knees. "It's okay to sleep in the bed," he shared. "This is your room while you're here at D...at Bill's cabin." Charlie's eyes widened for a moment, and then wandered back to the sandwich David had left on the bed. Agent Sinclair picked up his own, and prepared to take a bite. "Go ahead, Charlie. Alan told me how to make it the way you like it. Pickles, lettuce, mustard; no mayo."

Charlie seemed to think about that for a moment, frowning, but suddenly scrambled on his hands and knees toward the sandwich, which he grabbed in a sudden lunge and brought to his mouth quickly, as if afraid David would change his mind. Charlie re-situated himself against the wall where he had crawled, and remained within a few feet of David.

Sinclair chewed for a moment, the turkey threatening to stick in his throat. He swallowed as he set the sandwich back on the plate. "Oh, yeah," he said conversationally. "Amita is bringing us a couple of bottles of water. You might want to pace yourself."

Charlie seemed to shrink into the wall, and he eyed the partially-closed door warily. "I don't want her in here," he protested, shifting his eyes to David's. "She's a slut, you know."

David winced, but didn't protest. "Why do you say that?" he asked instead.

Charlie gripped his sandwich tightly – David could see a pickle threatening to pop out the side. Something passed over his face as he hesitated, and then he began to recite his lines. "Mark...Mark says that she was wrong to sleep with a man who was not her husband, and she is...she is wrong to, to place herself in a position to instruct males. She should be married, and having babies."

David thought he heard soft footsteps approaching the door, but he ignored them. "Charlie," he said deliberately, taking a calculated risk, "did Mark say anything about me? Did he call me a liar?"

Charlie snuck another nibble off the sandwich, rescued the escaping pickle and lowered his hands almost to the floor, shaking his head as he chewed. "No," he admitted, his mouth half full.

David nodded. "Then let me tell you what I think. The first thing is, if Amita is a slut to sleep with a man – what does that make the man who sleeps with her?"

Charlie reddened, and scowled. "I was not enlightened, then. Mark says that she tricked me; it wasn't my fault."

David nodded again, and moved on. "The second thing is this. You remember Jeff – the real Jeff. I know you never got a chance to work with the team when he was on it, but you met him. You dropped by the office one afternoon to return Don's signed Babe Ruth baseball – you borrowed it for a class."

Charlie set his sandwich on the floor and stared at it, silent. David continued in his 'good cop' voice. "Anyway, Jeff and Colby and I were shooting the shit at Colby's desk; it was almost quitting time. We told him you were Don's brother, that you worked with the team a lot. He watched you two tossing that ball around and laughing about something and said he hoped he would be that close to his own brother some day. He said the reason he chose the L.A. office over Denver was because he knew his brother lived here, and he wanted to get to know him. He hadn't seen him for almost twelve years. Jeff was only 14 when his older brother moved out of the house and left town – with his girlfriend."

Charlie looked up sharply and David shrugged, spreading his hands. "Hey, I'm just telling you what Jeff said. I checked it out, and my research confirms that Mark Danielson lived with Kaitlin Scott in Portland, Seattle and Vancouver until 1999, when she flat-out disappeared. Seattle PD investigated him on a charge of domestic abuse once, but never got enough to charge him; they left for Vancouver soon after that. He joined the Navy not long after she disappeared." His mouth quirked. "If I were the suspicious type, I'd say he was hiding in plain sight."

"That's a lie," Charlie said, rubbing his head. "Mark would never do that!"

David retreated, picking up his sandwich again. "Have some more to eat," he suggested. "You must be hungry after having just milk for breakfast."

Charlie looked miserably at the food in front of him, jumping when a soft rap sounded on the door. David leaned forward a little, out of the way, and smiled at Amita, who winked at him as she handed him a bottle of water. She held another in Charlie's general direction, and when he made no move to accept it, she handed that one to David as well. "There's strawberry ice cream," she offered shyly. "I know how much you like that, Charlie. Maybe later, I could make you a milkshake, if you want."

Charlie pressed both hands to the sides of his head, as if forcing himself not to look at her. "I have a headache," he whispered, beginning to rock back-and-forth. "I have a headache."

Exchanging a look with Amita, David handed her his sandwich and stood, clutching one bottle of water and leaving the other on the floor for Charlie. "We'll let you get some rest," he said gently. "Remember, there's some Tylenol(TM) in the bathroom."

Amita smiled, even though Charlie still wasn't looking at her, and then she and David left the room, quietly shutting the door.

Charlie looked up at the click, hands still gripping the sides of his head, rocking where he sat.

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Mark felt Jeff very strongly, here.

He sniffed, sitting on the lawn at the edge of the pond, and reached one hand into the bucket, withdrawing the striped orange one.

In less-sure hands the slippery fish would have gotten away; but Mark held on rather easily – especially after he slammed the koi repeatedly into the decorative stone ledge at the edge of the pond. When it was quite dead, he inverted the fish, holding it belly-up in one hand, and cutting a V-shaped notch near the tail with the other. Then he plunged the point of the knife into the notch. He drew the blade toward the thoroughly-bashed head, splitting the fish to the base of the gills.

Mark wondered why Jeff didn't love him anymore as he spread the abdominal cavity with his fingers and dragged the fish entrails out, tossing them into the pond, which was now murky from the intestines of many fish. Once the koi was gutted, Danielson tossed it onto the pile and reached into the bucket for another.

Jeff had left him, and had gutted him as surely as he was gutting the fish. Mark apologized to the koi before he began bashing its head against the bloody rock.

He knew just how it felt.

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Several hours later, the intervention continued. It went on late into the night, with only one short break. Both Alan and Don found themselves having to leave again. The third time Don bolted from the great room, into the kitchen, he found Amita there. He had not even noticed that she wasn't part of the group session.

He leaned heavily against the stove and sighed. "How long have you been here?" he asked, embarrassed to realize that he had no memory of her leaving the group.

"I never joined everyone after dinner," she admitted. "I told Dr. Bradford I would do the dishes; I needed a break."

Now Don felt even worse. It had been at least three hours since dinner. About to ask is she was 'okay', he reworded his question quickly, since it was apparent that none of them were. "You hangin' in?"

Amita drew circles on the table top, eventually lifting dry, sad eyes to look at him. "Don't misunderstand," she started, and Don's blood ran cold. That was not a great preface to any sentence he could think of. "I know Charlie is a victim, here. He was taken and held forcibly, and terrible things were done to him. When I think of what he's been through the last six weeks, it breaks my heart. It. Breaks. My. Heart."

Don stood at the stove, looking down at her. "And?" he prodded.

She looked away. "And I'm starting to think that all the king's horses, and all the king's men, can never put us back together again."

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Rodney Henderson, Alan's closest neighbor, had been appalled and sickened when he came over after work to feed the koi. Alan had been very mysterious about where he was going, and for how long -- Rodney had been understanding, knowing how distraught the poor man had been since his youngest son had been missing -- but now he regretted not being able to contact him. After a few shocked minutes wandering around the pond and regarding the carnage, it suddenly occurred to him that he might be disturbing evidence, so he stopped and stood near the bench, took out his cell phone, and called the police. While he waited, he phoned his wife; they had an emergency contact number for Don, Alan's oldest son. The one in the F.B.I. He asked her in a strained voice to call him and ask him to come to the house; then he made her promise not to come over herself. Pasadena PD began to arrive around 10 minutes later, and when he saw the first patrol car, Rodney called her back; she had been unable to get an answer at either Don's apartment, or his cell phone.

The young patrolman seemed as disgusted as Rodney felt. but the older one -- a Sergeant, judging from the appearance of his badge and uniform -- had obviously seen worse in his day. He looked at the scene with disinterest. "Anything else disturbed?" he asked, and Rodney looked around, suddenly wary.

"I...everything looks all right. The garage should be locked, and the garden shed -- but I can see the padlock hanging on the shed from here."

The Sergeant bumped his junior officer. "Let's check on the garage while we're waiting for a forensics team to document this mess," he ordered. Rodney was content to stand amongst the dead fish and watch. First the older officer donned a pair of latex gloves; Rodney guessed that was so he wouldn't disturb any prints. Then he reached out and tried the doorknob while the younger patrolman stood back-up, his gun pulled and ready. It all made Rodney very nervous, and he was relieved when the door did not open. His racing heart began to calm as the officers carefully circled the building, looking through the windows, and then thoroughly searched the perimeter of the large yard. The police were literally beating the bushes, and Rodney couldn't be happier about it.

He was waiting for them at the corner of the garage -- the smell of fish guts was getting to him -- when they completed their circuit, holstering their weapons. The officers were walking toward him when his cell rang, and Rodney hoped his wife had good news. "Sheila? Did you find Don?" His expression darkened, and he sighed. At length, he disconnected and looked at the Sergeant. "After...all this...is documented, can I clean it up? I don't want them coming home to this."

The Sergeant gestured to his phone. "What was that?"

Rodney shrugged. "My wife has been trying to reach Alan's oldest son. He's an F.B.I. agent, by the way. Anyway, she couldn't convince anyone down there that it was a family emergency. According to them, Don's already with his family at some retreat a psychiatrist set up for them up in the mountains." He regarded the officers sadly. "The Eppes have had a hard few weeks; I hope this Bradford fellow is able to help them."

The young patrolman looked a little surprised. "They told you his name?"

Rodney reddened, a little embarrassed. "No, not exactly," he hedged, but he could tell from the stony expression on the Sergeant's face that he would have to spill it all. He sighed, and regarded the grass. "Sheila and I, we had some troubles a few months back. Alan recommended this fellow, said Don had been seeing him for a while." Another patrol car turned into the drive, and the three men started across the lawn to meet them.

Inside the garage, lying in a sweaty heap under a dusty tarp directly under the cracked window, Danielson had to hold his hands over his mouth to suppress a giggle.


	12. The Bedtime

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 12: The Bedtime**

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After almost 36 hours, Bradford pulled rank. The group had taken several short breaks, but never all at the same time, and never for more than a few hours. The doctor could see that Charlie was on overload; he had barely been responding for the last hour. It had been almost exactly 48 hours since Don, Colby and David raptured him out of Danielson's house, and Bradford also thought it was time to send a strong message of trust. Charlie had stayed voluntarily at the cabin this long, and it was time for him to see that the people around him trusted and respected him, and weren't there as babysitters: the psychiatrist ordered everyone to bed for some much-needed rest.

They filtered silently into the various bathrooms and bedrooms. When he had settled into the top bunk in the room he was sharing with his father, Don blinked lazily at the ceiling and wondered abstractly if he had ever been so tired in his entire life. He was supremely glad that they had Charlie back – at least physically – and humbly grateful to the good friends who were helping in so many ways throughout this ordeal. He was even appreciative of Millie, who had no idea what was going on, but still went out of her way to cover for Charlie, and give him a little time.

He was also beginning to understand that there would be long-term consequences to Charlie's abduction. He worried that his brother would never be the same again, even if he accepted the truth about Danielson; surely, too much damage had been done. He was concerned that Charlie's relationship with Amita – somewhat fragile to begin with – would not prove strong enough to survive this hell.

And eventually, Don realized that he had heard his father sniff in the bottom bunk several times since he had turned the light out and crawled between the sheets. He turned onto his side and hung his head over the top bunk. "Dad?" he whispered.

"I think I'm coming down with a cold," the older man answered in a thick voice. "Don't mean to keep you awake."

Don let a few moments of silence tick by. "It'll be all right," he finally offered. The assurance sounded a little lame, so he tried to be more upbeat. "Hell, we had him a helluva lot longer than Danielson did. That's gonna pay off – you'll see."

Alan sniffed again. "Watch your mouth, young man," he admonished. Don heard the sheets rustling as his father sought comfort in the narrow bed. "Donny?"

"Yeah, Dad."

"I love you, son."

"I love you too, Dad. 'Night."

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Alone in the master bedroom, Amita lay in the darkness. She wondered if the blackness of the room was seeping into her heart, or if the blackness of her heart was leaking into the room. She doubted that she could feel worse, but the cold fact was that her relationship with Charlie was not deep enough to withstand this latest twist. They had barely survived a bad first date, and were still reeling from her parents' inability to embrace her romantic choice. In the best of times, Charlie could be totally consumed by his work; if she were to admit the truth, so could she. They could both be pretty focused individuals -- the operative word, 'focused', being a less judgmental way of saying they were both 'self-absorbed'. They were each incredibly busy: teaching, researching, consulting, publishing in academic journals and/or writing the occasional book... It was little wonder that even though they had known each other several years, their romantic relationship was still in its infancy.

She sighed as she faced the truth. Even if the relationship were established enough to withstand blunt force trauma -- who would Charlie be, when he was put back together? Which parts of him would be missing, and how much damage would he carry for how long? Amita was far from a stupid woman; she knew that she might not even be attracted to Charlie anymore when his latest incarnation emerged.

She tossed restlessly in the bed, and hoped that they would always be friends. Surely he would rediscover his passion for science, and they would always have that in common. She told herself that they would have to take the rest slowly, and actually laughed out loud in a bitter half-sob. They'd taken things pretty damn slowly already, 'gathering more data'. Hell, if they slowed it down any more, they'd be standing still.

Or going backwards.

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Larry lay on his back in the twin bed under the fluffy pink bedspread, hands under his head, musing while he waited for Bill Bradford to return from the bathroom and turn in for the night. He smiled, a picture of the large black man huddled under the pastel polyester thoroughly entertaining him.

At length, the doctor entered the room. He paused by the door to turn out the light. "Good-night, Larry," he said politely, carefully navigating the dark in search of his bed.

Larry waited until he heard the bedsprings squeaking in protest of the physician's bulk. "You seem quite familiar with this process," he observed finally. "I believe you used the term 'exit counseling.' Am I to assume that you may have participated in such a scenario before, my good doctor?"

Bradford grunted, flopping like a large, disgruntled, koi. "I'm a psychiatrist," he hedged. "I have been called upon to do many things in that capacity."

Larry smiled in the dark. "Ah, but sir. I would think exit counseling to be somewhat of a specialty. I myself have pursued both quantum and astrophysic studies, for example, but have spent much less time in the medical fields, such as dosimetry."

There was a slight pause. "What?"

"The process or method of measuring the dosage of ionizing radiation," Larry explained easily.

"Oh," Bradford murmured. "Right. Right." He shook his head on his pillow and rolled his eyes, safely invisible in the dark, before he spoke again. "One applies what one already knows when a new situation appears suddenly." He hoped that was obscure enough to placate the professor.

Apparently not. "True," Larry responded. "Yet you do not appear to be forging your way through new territory. There is a certain familiarity to your work."

Bradford contemplated the ceiling he could not see. "I do not profess any expertise with either exit counseling or deprogramming," he answered in perfect non-denial denial. He considered going into politics before he finished the thought. "It might surprise you to learn that I, too, am familiar with research. Colleague consultation, textbooks; Google®."

Larry chuckled. "Ah. I wish half my students were as dedicated."

"When they find something -- or someone -- they care about enough, they will be," responded Bradford. "There's a steep learning curve at play in this game we call 'life', Dr. Fleinhardt." He shifted onto his side, facing the wall. "Sleep well."

Larry yawned. "You also, my friend."

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Colby rolled over onto his right side and slammed a fist into his pillow.

"Dude," David admonished. "What did that thing ever do to you?"

"Sorry," Granger answered. "Didn't mean to keep you awake."

"You're not," David assured him. "It's funny. I'm exhausted, but I'm too keyed-up to sleep, ya know?"

"Yeah," Colby agreed. "This is...weird. Hard."

"No shit."

Colby returned to his back. "You've been great though, Dave. So freakin' _calm_ all the time, and supportive. Charlie really seems to respond to you."

"I don't think he's so much _responding_ as just not _programmed_ to freak out," David replied honestly. "Since I was out of town when all of this went down, Danielson probably didn't include me when he was turning Charlie against everybody else."

"Stupid mistake," Colby noted. "I'm surprised he missed that; seems like his research was pretty thorough."

David thought about it for awhile. "I think he was probably too invested in punishing Don," he suggested.

Colby exhaled, rolling again. "He did a good job of punishing Charlie, too."

David agreed silently with that observation. "Maybe we'd better switch bunks," he said, changing the subject. "You keep tossing and turning like that, you're going to fly right off there and break an arm or something when you finally hit the floor."

"Shut-up," Colby groused, flipping onto his back once more. "Good-the-hell-night."

David smiled. "Yeah. See you in the mornin', Col." He couldn't resist one last shot. "And don't worry -- I'll be careful not to step on you when you fall out of that top bunk."

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Charlie loved his bedroom at Dr. Bradford's cabin.

He could take a shower, or bath, whenever he wanted. He could use the toilet, and brush his teeth. There was even dental floss -- a discovery that actually brought tears to his eyes. The bed was soft, and warm, and his stomach was as full as it had been in more time than he could put together. He didn't like the dark, though. He left the light on in the bathroom and the door wide open, so that it cut a wide path across the dimness of the bedroom. And then he slept.

He dreamed of his mother. Not Rita, the woman in the photos Mark had shown him over and over, but his real mother. Margaret. She was laughing, sitting next to a little boy on a piano bench. Stubby little fingers obstinately fought to span the keys of the old upright instrument before him while another little boy, much younger, lay on the carpeted floor behind them, munching a cookie and studiously working at something with a thick, red crayon.

In his dream, it became important for Charlie to see what the little boy on the floor was doing. At first he assumed that it was a coloring book. The child barely looked old enough to be trusted with a crayon. As the paper came more into focus, Charlie began to recognize the numbers. The little boy was multiplying two- and three-digit sets of numbers on top of the line-art clown he was supposed to be coloring.

His mother laughed again, leaning over to kiss the top of Donny's head, and then she turned to check on Charlie on the floor. Her eyes widened a little when she saw the numbers, and a tiny frown crossed her face. "Charlie, sweetie, don't you want to color the clown for your daddy?"

"In a minute, Mommy," the child answered. "They want out of my head, first."

The older boy had turned to contemplate his brother's activities. "I hate you, Charlie," he said matter-of-factly, and then he turned back to the piano. Margaret began to fade, and still asleep in the guest bedroom at William Bradford's cabin, Charlie began to cry.

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He shot awake, heart pounding, only two hours after he had fallen asleep. He had no memory of the dream, and he wondered why his pillow was damp and his face felt swollen. He got up and used the restroom, pausing to wash his face with the thick white washcloth, and then crawled back into bed. The alarm clock on the bedside table read '6 a.m.', and after an hour of staring at the ceiling, Charlie gave up. He wasn't getting back to sleep, so he got up and dressed as quietly as he could, and slipped out the bedroom door.

He padded barefoot into the great room and shivered when his bare feet hit the wood plank flooring. He walked to the low coffee table in front of the couch and regarded it solemnly, finally reaching out to pick up several of the file folders from which Colby had taken information. On the far end of the table sat a thick album no-one had shown him yet, so Charlie picked that up as well. Clutching everything to his chest with both arms, he moved silently into the kitchen.

The first hour, Charlie poured over the files. He saw that everything Colby had claimed was true. He read official police reports, and military records. He carefully studied transcripts of interviews with Mark Danielson's father, and an Aunt in Minnesota. When he couldn't process any more, he set the files aside and opened the padded leather album. It was full to overflowing with photographs of the young Eppes family. Don and Charlie as infants, toddlers, children; pictures Charlie had seen many times before. There were family outings: picnics and camping trips that he almost remembered; one parent smiling and holding children while the other snapped a photo. Interspersed with these photographs were long-gone grandparents, and a scattering of aunts and uncles seasoned with an occasional cousin. As he perused the album, most of their names came back to him. As the boys grew older, the photographs began to include baseball games with Don in a Little League uniform. There was a picture of Charlie sitting in the shade under the bleachers, somewhere, a ream of graph paper in his lap, his head bent close over it. He was keeping stats, he remembered now, developing his theory that Don's batting average was directly related to his stance. Charlie suddenly flashed on his dream – _I hate you, Charlie_ – and slammed the album shut.

He sat for a few moments, breathing hard, then rose and walked to the cupboards, reaching inside for the ground coffee. After he had loaded and started the automatic drip machine, Charlie stepped to the sink, where a few mugs and glasses sat. He washed them, found a clean linen towel to dry, and was replacing the glassware in the cupboards when the door to the kitchen creaked open.

Startled, he whirled to face the intruder and dropped the glass in his hand. Luckily it splashed harmlessly back into the sink, which was still full of the sudsy water Charlie had been using. Still, seeing Bill Bradford, he apologized profusely. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It didn't break…."

The doctor smiled and gently interrupted. "It's fine, Charlie. Do I smell fresh coffee?"

Charlie reached into the cupboard again, withdrew a freshly-bathed mug and cautiously stretched out his hand. Bradford was surprised – and gratified – when the youngest Eppes didn't just set the mug on the table, but let him reach out his own hand and accept it. It was as close to touching or being touched as the man had allowed during their time at the cabin.

"Thank-you," Bradford murmured. Charlie reddened slightly and looked at the floor, so the doctor strolled to the coffee, poured himself some and turned, leaning casually against the counter several feet from Charlie. The psychiatrist took a deep swallow, smacked his lips in appreciation and looked at Eppes. "This is very good," he complimented. Charlie's look of discomfort increased, but Bradford continued his conversation as if he didn't notice. "Couldn't sleep?"

A shadow crossed Charlie's face before he turned to pull the stopper from the sink, and let the water drain. He dried his hands slowly and then turned back around. He looked Bill Bradford in the eye for a long moment, and then began to speak softly. "Mark lied to me, didn't he?"

Hope ignited in Bradford's chest but he tamped it down. "I think so, Charlie," he said. "I guess that depends upon to what you are referring." Charlie glanced sideways at the table. Bradford followed his gaze and noted the files, and the album. "You've been up for a while," he remarked.

Charlie shrugged. "He lied about who he was, and I think he lied about everything. When I look at the pictures, I don't remember them treating me the way he said they did. I remember…"

"What, Charlie?" Bradford pressed gently. "What do you remember?"

Charlie's luminous brown eyes filled with fear before he dropped his gaze to the floor again. "I remember being happy," he whispered, and then he raised his eyes to Bradford again. "I remember waking up on the cold concrete, and noise, and pain, and wanting to be home." Bradford held his breath and determined to choose his words carefully, but before he could, Charlie spoke again, his voice cracking and barely audible, his dark eyes filling with tears. "Please. Can you help me go home?"

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End, Chapter 12


	13. The Bereaved

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 13: The Bereaved**

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Mark had to think for a good while, which he did most of the night. By the time Dr, William Bradford's office was open for business at 9:00 a.m., he had passed enough time to come up with a story and look up the number in the phone book. At 9:15 a.m., he launched Operation Retrieve Jeff. When the receptionist answered, he spoke in a breathless hurry. "Oh, thank God," he began. "Listen, I know Bill is probably with a patient but I need him to return my call as soon as possible, please. This is an emergency!"

"If this is an emergency," counseled the melodius, dulcet tones of the receptionist, "please hang up and dial 9-1-1." Mark's mouth gaped. He must have reached a recording; certainly not something he was expecting. He hesitated so long, trying to come up with a Plan B, that he almost didn't hear the woman when she spoke again. "Sir? Sir?" Her voice began to show signs of stress. "Can you respond, sir?"

Mark finally pulled himself together and plunged into the script, with a few added ad libs. "Y- yes, I'm sorry. Not that kind of emergency, dear."

She backed off a little reclaiming her professional detachment. "I'm afraid Dr. Bradford is out of the office this week, but he is checking in daily. If you'll leave your name and number, I'll have him return your call as soon as possible."

Mark was ready for that. "Oh, no," he groaned. "This is Dave, a friend of his. He took me up to his place for the weekend a couple of months ago, and I forgot something when we came back to L.A. It's very important that I get it back before 4 o' clock this afternoon!"

"Are you referring to the cabin in the Sierra Madres above San Bernadino? Past Lake Arrowhead?"

Mark danced a jig around his telephone table. "Exactly, exactly," he confirmed. "Bill and I go way back. Way back — he even knows my mother. When he came to pick me up to take me to the cabin, I just grabbed the day's mail and took it with me. I was going through it that night and found a letter from Mom. I shared the letter with Bill, and we left it lying in the living room when we were done."

A non-committal "I see."

"Ordinarily, it wouldn't be a big deal. I'd just pick it up the next time I go up there." He paused for a moment, thought about Jeff, and allowed his voice to thicken with unshed tears. "It's just that...my mom...she passed away suddenly, and the service is this afternoon. I'd like to share a few paragraphs from the letter. I was looking all over for it when I remembered that I had taken it to the cabin."

And here came the sympathy. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. -- what was your name again?"

"Dave," he sniffed. "Just call me Dave."

There was a smile in her voice. "All-right, Dave. Usually Dr. Bradford has his cell, and there is a fax at the cabin — he's there right now."

Mark's own grin faltered. "That's wonderful," he responded, even though it clearly was not.

She threw another bone his way. "It would be," she agreed apologetically, "but he instructed me not to contact him, this trip. I'm not sure, but I think he does not want to disturb a sick friend who is using the cabin for recuperation. Emergencies are referred to another physician. As I said, Dr. will check in this afternoon, but it's usually just before we close." She sounded worried, now. "That will be too late." Mark's manufactured moan was too convincing, for she hurried on. "Perhaps I could try to call his cell anyway. I'm sure when I explain..."

"NO!", Mark shouted. He forced himself to calm. "No, dear, I wouldn't want you to disobey his instructions. I have his cell number myself. If he doesn't answer, I might just drive up and retrieve the letter; I have time to get there and back before the service. And the drive is lovely; it would help me clear my head." He sighed loudly. "These last few days have been such an ordeal."

"I'm sure they have," she commiserated. "I lost my own mother just last year."

Mark wanted to yank the phone out of the wall in his impatience, but he played the scene out. "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. We're just never ready, are we?"

Now _she_ was the one sniffing. "No, no, I guess we're not." Mark heard another phone ringing in the background, and the receptionist resumed her earlier tone. "Another line is ringing, Mr. -- Dave. Again, please accept my condolences. Drive carefully if you do head up 18."

Mark smiled. "I intend to, thank you. I intend to."

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Charlie sat with Dr. Bradford in the kitchen for another hour. They spoke of the long-term counseling Bradford had already discussed with everyone else, as well as the integration ahead. "You existed before this man took you Charlie, and you can reclaim that life. Of course, there will also be ramifications to the time you spent with him. For example -- and this is only an example, I'm not saying this is true -- you might have discovered, during this time, that you prefer working in a diner to teaching." Bradford smiled. "There are also core aspects to your identity that exist independent of outside influences. My goal is to help you pull all of these parts together."

Charlie had started looking confused toward the end of the speech, and was rubbing at his forehead. "Core aspect?" he repeated.

Bradford spread his hands. "You're a caring person, Charlie. It was instinctive for you to make coffee this morning, since you were the first one awake. You are also responsible. You did the dishes, because they were there. Yesterday I heard you whisper 'thank-you' to Colby when he brought you a bottle of water; you're polite. Can you think of instances that each of these characteristics presented themselves, during your time with Mark?"

Charlie thought for a moment. "I'm not sure if I was being polite, or if I was just afraid he would stop doing it, but I thanked him every morning when he would share his breakfast at the diner. As for responsible...it's kind of the same dilemma. Did I do things out of some ingrained habit, or out of fear?"

"Maybe a little of both," Bradford suggested.

Charlie contemplated. "Maybe," he eventually shrugged. "I had chores; there were things Mark told me I had to do around the apartment. Cleaning, vacuuming. But sometimes I would do something that wasn't on the list, because I saw that it needed to be done." He grimaced and shifted in his chair. "As long as it didn't involve my leaving without permission, Mark never seemed to mind."

Bradford prodded. "You left without permission?"

Charlie looked at the table, embarrassed. "Just once. I only went to the parking area, because I noticed that the car was really dusty. I washed it while Mark was sleeping, but he got very angry. He locked me in a closet, and called me in sick to work. He wouldn't let me have anything to eat until the next day."

Appalled, it took the doctor a moment to digest that, but eventually he fit the story into the original conversation. "The desire to wash the car was the caring aspect of your personality coming out. Do you see what I'm trying to say? Even though you were subjected to the things you were, and brainwashed to regurgitate the lies he fed you, you still managed to retain the core pieces of you."

Charlie nodded, then yawned hugely. "Sorry," he apologized tiredly.

Bradford grinned. "Not at all. You've hardly slept, and the discoveries you have made are major. This level of stress, emotional upheaval and shock is enormously draining." Bradford glanced at his watch. "We're not on any schedule here; maybe you'd like to try to sleep again?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah. The others will be up soon. I need some time alone..." He eyed the photo album, still sitting on the table, and tentatively lifted a hand and placed it gently on the cover. "May I take this with me?"

"Absolutely," Bradford agreed. "I think that would make your father very happy."

Charlie started to smile, but stopped, confused. "I don't know if that matters to me anymore," he admitted, standing. He looked at the doctor with a certain amount of fear in his eyes, as if he might have said the wrong thing.

The psychiatrist just nodded. "Maybe not," he concurred. "Time will tell -- you don't have to figure it all out today."

Charlie picked up the album from the table. "Thank-you," he said. "I appreciate everything you're doing."

Bradford tilted his head. "You see?" he asked, mildly teasing. "There you go being polite again."

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Mark picked his clothing for the trip very carefully. He intended to wear his nicest shirt, and his only pair of good slacks, when his eyes fell on the suit hanging in the closet, still in a bag from the dry cleaner's. His father had bought the suit for him and had it pressed so that Mark would have something to wear to Jeff's funeral. He remembered when his father had shown up at the apartment with it, he thought, but he frowned. The memory couldn't be accurate, because Jeff wasn't dead. Jeff was just confused, and he had let himself be taken by Agent Eppes. "That's right," he murmured, drawing the suit out of the closet, "Jeff is waiting for me to pick him up." His poor, misguided father had bought a pale blue dress shirt to go with the suit, and Mark reached for the department store box on the shelf of his closet. He wished he had a tie. He wanted to look nice for Jeff.

There was no 'rush hour' anymore; Los Angeles was one continuous traffic jam, and it took Mark quite a while to leave the city behind, headed for the mysterious mountains that hovered above San Bernadino. Before he began climbing the smooth, wide State highway that wound up the face of the mountain, he stopped at the San Bernadino county seat, to visit the assessor's office.

He arrived during the lunch hour. At first that disturbed him, but he was relieved to find the office open, with a skeleton staff of one. He hid behind mirror sun glasses and breezed to the counter. His goal was to appear affluent, important, in a hurry; and he slapped his hand on the cold tile. "I'm here about the Bradford property," he stated in a rush of hot air. "The place above Lake Arrowhead. I need platte numbers, recent assessment values, a map. Hup, hup."

The graying clerk rose arthritically from her desk and approached, frowning and shaking her head. "I'll tell you what I tell all the others," she glared at him. "Wasting my time, and yours too…"

Mark interrupted. "What others?"

"Developers," she huffed, clearly affronted. "Doc Bradford's owned that whole block of land for nigh on twenty years, and he's never entertained any offers on any part of it." She squared her thin shoulders. "Now there's a man who appreciates the beauty of nature. You people just don't give up; especially with the market like it is, now. You just will not stop until you carve that magnificent land into pieces!" Her tirade ended with a grumble. "Might as well keep the map to his place up here – I just had to go down to the basement for the same thing last week!"

Timing was everything, Mark was learning, and it was time for him to bring Jeff home. "Do your job, woman," he ordered brusquely. "I need to see that map, study those numbers. I intend to make that doctor an offer he cannot refuse."

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Around noon, when everyone was having breakfast for lunch, Bradford informed them of Charlie's morning breakthrough. Alan wanted to go to his room and see him immediately, but Don managed to dissuade him. "Dad, I'm sure he's tired. Let him sleep."

Alan dropped a slice of toast on his plate and sighed. Colby, whose plate had been empty for quite some time, looked at him hopefully. "You gonna eat that?" Alan rolled his eyes and shoved the plate in his direction, and Colby turned his attention to the doctor. "So is this it, then? Everything is okay, now?"

Bradford rose to stack his own plate on the counter near the sink. "That's a tad simplistic," he responded. "He has quite a bit of therapy ahead of him. In the short-term, he needs to decide whether or not to press charges against Mark Danielson."

Amita protested. "Kidnapping is a federal offense, regardless of the testimony of the victim," she pointed out. She glanced at David. "You should go pick up that horrible man right now; make sure he's in jail before Charlie goes back to L.A."

"I agree," voted Alan.

Don raised a hand in a peacemaking gesture. "Guys, if we take him before we have enough to charge him, he'll end up on the streets again before we've finished the paperwork."

Colby had finished Alan's breakfast and suggested an alternative scenario. "Doc, Charlie's probably gonna sleep a while, right?"

Bradford nodded. "I suspect as much, yes."

Colby continued. "When he wakes up, it'd probably be a little easier for him if we weren't all hangin' around starin' at him. Why don't David and I head back now? We can present what we have to LAPD and Wright, and try to get a tail on this guy. If they won't go for it, David and I can take turns for a few days, until we all have a better idea what Charlie's gonna do."

Don was silent while he thought about the proposal, and the doctor spoke again. "I don't know anything about the legalities, but from a medical standpoint, I think it's a good idea. Charlie asked me if he could go home again; I believe he could use a few days with his immediate family, to get used to being with them again." He looked at Alan and smiled. "You're all welcome to stay here at the cabin as long as you'd like. You can bring me the key sometime next week, and we'll set up some individual and family counseling sessions."

Larry suddenly made his presence known, sighing into his Cream of Wheat®. They all looked at him and he blushed, but spoke his mind. "I can certainly see the wisdom of thinning the crowd," he began. "Yet I do not return to L.A.; I must go on to D.C. I hesitate to leave without at least telling Charles good-bye."

"Of course," Alan started, but the psychiatrist interrupted.

"Actually," Bradford noted, "that's exactly the kind of pressure he does not need right now. His return to the land of Eppes is still very new, and precarious; he could very easily be pushed over the brink." Larry looked a little affronted, and the doctor gentled his tone. "I encourage you to leave a short note; if at all possible, I would like to see you return for a few days next month."

"I rode up with Larry and Dr. Bradford," Amita contributed quietly to the discussion. "I should probably go too."

Now Alan had really had enough. "Nonsense," he said, standing. "Bill said Charlie's immediate family. As far as I'm concerned, that's all of us, but even if we have to split hairs, you still make the cut."

Her eyes welled with tears and she looked away. Don spoke to his teammates to give her a chance to pull herself together. "Okay," he said to Colby and David. "You guys see what you can arrange. I'll turn my cell back on in a couple of hours; you can call me tonight with an update."

Both men nodded, and Bradford addressed Alan and Don again. "I spoke with Charlie quite a while this morning. You should be prepared for some things. When he wakes and realizes we all have gone, he might convince himself that he has done something wrong." He turned his head to glance at Larry. "You should address this in your note, as well. Assure him that none of this has been his fault; remind Charlie that he was a victim." He looked back at Alan. "And as tempting as it will be, don't 'love' him to death. Certain words contain connotations that lead to emotional pressure he just can't withstand, yet. Let your actions speak – just as they have been."

Alan looked woebegone. "I can't tell him I love him?"

Bradford sighed. "Not repeatedly, Alan. Take your cues for verbal and non-verbal communication from him. It's not fair, but for a while, anyway, he has to be in charge."

Don snorted sarcastically, narrowly escaping blowing coffee out his nose. "Whoever said Charlie's life was fair?"

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_His mother laughed again, leaning over to kiss the top of Donny's head, and then she turned to check on Charlie on the floor. Her eyes widened a little when she saw the numbers, and a tiny frown crossed her face. "Charlie, sweetie, don't you want to color the clown for your daddy?"_

_"In a minute, Mommy," the child answered. "They want out of my head, first."_

_The older boy had turned to contemplate his brother's activities silently. He tugged on his mother's sleeve as he turned back to the piano. "Mo-om," he whined, "this is __my__ lesson. Come back and play with me." Charlie looked up at the petulant tone of his brother's voice, wondering if he had done something wrong. Margaret began to fade, and lying awake in the guest bedroom at William Bradford's cabin, Charlie knew that this was not a dream; it was a memory._

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End, Chapter 13


	14. The Beloved

**Title: Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 14: The Beloved**

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After the brunch conclave, Larry stepped out onto the back porch for a moment of solitude. He inhaled the pine-scented air deeply as he contemplated his alternatives. Then he powered up the cell he had retrieved from his luggage on the way out, and called Megan.

Fifteen minutes later, he sat cross-legged on one of the pink frilly bedspreads. His elbows were propped upon his knees, his forearms extending vertically; the palms of his hands faced each other and his chin rested upon his fingertips. He faced the door, so he was ready when William Bradford walked in. The doctor eyed the open suitcase on the end of Larry's bed. "Just about ready?" he asked, crossing to the small closet to retrieve his own bag in preparation for packing.

Larry dropped his hands to rest in the dead space just in front of his knees, and straightened his spine. "I completely respect your expertise," the physicist answered conversationally. "Yet I cannot help but wonder how Charles will react when he awakens to find himself virtually abandoned in the enemy camp."

Bradford refused to be baited, and he tossed his bag toward his own bed, turning back to the closet to remove his shirts from their hangars. "That's a bit extreme, don't you think?" he responded dryly.

"Actually, I don't," countered Larry. "Charles has responded well to you, David; and Colby to a certain extent. He has avoided direct confrontation or close contact with his father, brother, and Amita. Yet you propose that the rest of us simply disappear while he sleeps and leave him to wake up surrounded by people he despised and feared just hours ago. I am concerned that such a scenario may make him relive his recent kidnapping and instigate serious post-traumatic stress."

Bradford slowly turned from the closet, an eyebrow raised. "Perhaps I underestimated your desire to stay," he remarked. "Are you just faking it here, or did you bring a laptop and break the search engine?"

Larry unwrapped himself and stood next to the bed, shrugging as he gained his feet. "My girlfriend has a Master's in psychology," he admitted. "I may have placed a call."

Bradford smiled. "Ah, I remember now. Don's former profiler, Megan. Am I to infer that she encouraged your inclination to stay?"

Larry smiled back. "You underestimate me again, my good doctor. For myself, I wish only the opportunity to say 'good-bye' to my close friend; then I will leave peacefully. As for Charles...I long that he feel safe. To that end, I would like to suggest that _you_ stay here at the cabin; at least for one more night. Ease him into communication with his family." The psychiatrist regarded him in silence for so long that Larry elaborated further. "This is a large cabin, my friend. You can easily make yourself scarce when the need arises, while remaining immediately available."

Finally Bill turned slowly, returning the shirt in his hand to its former position in the closet. When he faced Larry again, he nodded. "I am a reasonable man, Dr. Fleinhardt. I can accept the counsel of a colleague -- even when it's delivered long-distance, second-hand." Larry's eyes twinkled for a moment before he leaned to close his suitcase. He had some difficulty getting everything to fit into the old-fashioned molded plastic container, and Bradford approached to offer assistance. "Just you," the doctor said quietly as he pushed an escaping sock back inside. "And I'm not going to subject him to a long, tortured _adios_."

"Agreed," answered Larry, letting out a sigh of release when the two paralell locks finally engaged. "I'm ready when you are."

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Mark stopped at a small, roadside diner just outside of Lake Arrowhead for lunch. The food was nasty, and greasy -- nowhere near what he could have created -- and he wondered for a moment if he and Jeff dared to relocate here, so close to Los Angeles. He shouldn't have any trouble getting a job if this was the sort of thing this establishment was offering, and the surrounding forest was beautiful. Thick with fir, and pine; it was hard to believe that this close to the smog of the city one could find air that smelled of something besides gasoline and garbage. Maybe there was a tiny cabin around here; he and Jeff could rent for a while, if they had to...

The waitress sashayed by his table, refilling his coffee and pulling him out of his thoughts. Mark sighed, realizing it would never work. The risk was simply too great, this close to L.A. Besides, he really would prefer somewhere less populated. When he got Jeff back, he thought between sips of coffee, maybe the two of them wouldn't go back at all. They would start fresh. The Saturn was a solid car and fuel-efficient; he could sell it easily for a good price. Then he and his brother could hop a bus, with no real destination in mind. Perhaps they could stay in the Pacific Northwest. There were dozens of tiny towns in Oregon, Washington -- even Alaska was a possibility. Then again, this might be the perfect opportunity to really broaden their horizons. There had been a guy in Mark's unit from a farm near the Mississippi River, and another who boasted about his home in the Appalachians in North Carolina. The possibilities were endless, and filled Mark with a joy and a hope that he had not known for years.

The waitress shot him a look to see if he was finished yet; there were a few people at the door waiting for tables. He had been required to wait a little while himself, and had parked in the last available spot in the back of the building. Mark studiously ignored them all; they could wait. He needed to stop daydreaming and decide what to do in the immediate future. He had a good map of Bradford's property, now. There was a gravel turn-off from the highway that led to the cabin and the small lake. He wondered if he should leave the car on the side of the road and hike in, so that his arrival wasn't so obvious. How many were at the cabin, besides Jeff? The psychiatrist and the two Eppes, for sure; maybe even that horrible woman Jeff was mixed up with. It must be a full house; the element of surprise should not be underestimated. Maybe he should wait until the sun went down, or even later. He could let himself in and find Jeff while they all slept. He knew if he could just talk to Jeff, he could make him understand.

He shifted a little in his chair and frowned into his empty mug.

Think.

He had to think.

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Bradford rapped softly on the door before he pushed it open and led Larry inside, his finger to his lips. Charlie had finally fallen into a deep sleep, and he lay curled into a semi-fetal position, hugging a pillow, a slight frown on his face even in repose. The doctor hesitated. He didn't want to use physical touch to wake his patient -- there was no telling how Charlie would react to that, although it almost certainly would not be good. At length he approached as far as the end of the bed, and called softly. "Charlie? Charlie!"

He probably shouldn't have been surprised when the professor woke immediately, his eyes shooting open and filling with fear, his body trying to scramble backwards across the bed. "I'm sorry," he gasped, only stopping when he hit the wall behind him.

Bradford took another few steps and squatted down near the head of the bed."It's all right, Charlie. You're all right. It's Bill. Bill Bradford. You're in my cabin." He let Charlie breathe heavily for a moment until he saw recognition pass over his face. "Do you know where you are now?" he asked gently.

Charlie nodded, swallowed. "Y...yes," he answered, his eyes straying to Larry, who was standing behind the doctor. "Is it time to get up?" he asked, looking once more at Bradford.

The psychiatrist smiled, friendly, and suppressed a groan as he pushed up off the edge of the bed. "No, no, you're fine," he grunted. "Old knees. May I sit down?" There was a rocking chair in the corner of the room, a few feet from the bed. Charlie nodded, and Larry helped Bradford to his full height, and then dragged the chair a little closer to the bed. The doctor sank into it gratefully and included them both in his relieved sigh. "Thank-you!" He leaned forward in the chair a little -- still careful not to get too close to the cowering figure in the bed. "Charlie, some of us are going back to the city now. You and Don and Alan will stay here for a few days."

Larry looked at Bradford sharply -- what about Amita? -- and Charlie's eyes grew wide. "Please. Don't leave me with them. Please."

Bradford tilted his head and frowned. "Charlie, I thought you understood when we talked earlier. Perhaps I was the one who misunderstood -- do you want to reclaim your history, and your family?"

Charlie convulsively hugged the pillow more tightly. "I'm not ready," he whispered. "I'm afraid. I know the things Mark told me were not all true...but I think some of it was, maybe."

Bradford prodded. "Such as?"

"Don never wanted me," Charlie answered immediately. "My Dad resented how hard I made everything. Working overtime to pay for tutors...:

The doctor responded in a soft voice. "There very well may be some long-term issues amongst you all," he agreed. "That is one reason I would like to you spend some time with them." He smiled, suddenly. "Charlie, did you realize that you referred to Alan as 'Dad'?" Charlie's eyes widened again. Bill let him digest that for a moment and continued speaking when he saw Charlie's grip on the pillow loosen. "I won't leave you here alone; I will stay for awhile, if you'd like that."

Charlie actually smiled in his relief. "Yes," he nodded. "Thank-you."

The doctor looked up at Larry. "You should thank your friend, here. I received some very wise counsel from him."

"Megan, really," Larry demurred, and Charlie's expression turned wistful

"Megan," he repeated quietly. "How is she?"

Larry smiled and sat uninvited on the edge of Charlie's bed. "Wonderful," he answered. "She misses you all, of course, but she truly loves her role in the D.C. office. She was very pleased to learn of your...return, Charles." Charlie looked at the pillow, and after a quick glance at Bradford, Larry continued. "I wanted to say good-bye before I left. I will ride back to the city with Colby and David, and catch a flight back to Washington tonight."

A large tear squeezed out of Charlie's left eye, and he brushed impatiently at his cheek. "I said terrible things to you," he said to the pillow. "I don't blame you for leaving."

Larry wanted to reach out to his friend, but decided not to press his luck. "Charles, that wasn't your fault. You did nothing wrong, nothing to deserve what happened to you -- and I am not leaving because of what you said." Charlie glanced up, and Larry smiled before he finished the thought. "I agree with the doctor; you need some time with your family. I plan to return to L.A. in a few weeks' time, and Megan would like to come with me. She and I will complete the calendar dance when I get back to D.C.; hopefully you will see us both within the month."

Charlie looked full at Larry for several seconds before he dropped his eyes to the pillow again. "Still. I'm sorry," he finally said.

Somewhere Larry had picked up enough knowledge so that he responded appropriately, not denying Charlie's feelings. "Apology accepted," he said, and Bradford winked at him before he stepped back into the conversation.

"There's one other thing, Charlie; Larry hasn't even heard this yet." Both men regarded him with interest, and he kept his own face impassive. "Amita has decided to return this afternoon as well." Bradford reached into the back pocket of his jeans and withdrew a crumpled envelope. "She asked me to give you this." Charlie focused on the letter and blinked, but made no move to take it, so the doctor placed it on the bedside table, on top of the photo album. "You can read it later," he offered. "Perhaps you'd like to get some more sleep first."

Charlie nodded. "Will you be here when I wake up?"

"I'll be here in the cabin," Bradford assured him.

Charlie yawned, covering his mouth with one hand, looking over his fingers at Larry. He spoke from behind his hand. "Have a good flight. I'll see you soon."

"You absolutely will, dear friend," Larry confirmed. "You absolutely will."

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Alan stood next to Don at the bay window in the great room, watching the two cars depart. "I wish she'd stayed," he murmured.

"I know," Don answered. "But we can't push this, Dad. We can't push Charlie, and we can't force Amita to come to terms with all of this on our time schedule."

"You're right, I know," Alan said. "God knows the girl has a lot to deal with, herself. It's not that I want to deny her that opportunity. I'm just afraid that this will be too much for them, and Charlie will lose her on top of everything else."

Don considered. "You know Dad, I think Bradford has been trying to tell us that; none of us get to go back to the way it was. We can't pretend Charlie never went through all of this; least of all Charlie himself. We're all going to have to recreate our relationships, to a certain extent."

Alan thought about that for a moment, finally turning away from the window. "I just hope she wants to," he sighed.

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_'Dear Charlie'_, he read from his perch on the side of the bed, _'I'm so grateful that you have come back to us. I was terrified while you were gone, and it breaks my heart to hear of the things you endured. No matter what happens between us, please believe that I am always your friend; and I will be forever grateful that you escaped that horrible man.  
_

_I wish you well with the task of rebuilding your relationships with your father and brother. Those are your core relationships, and all others are built upon that foundation. While I hope that you and I will also emerge from this ordeal stronger than we were before, my gift to you at this moment is time. Take the time to get to know Alan, and Don, again. I will be waiting when you are ready to take on more. Love, Amita.'_

He carefully refolded the note and returned it to the envelope, which he continued to clutch in one hand as he crawled back under the covers. He shivered as he again assumed the semi-fetal position on his side that had become his norm, and wondered what the note meant. Had she thought for a long time about how to sign it? Did she mean 'love', or did she only mean 'love'? Would she really wait for him, and did he want her to? Would either, or both, of them decide, somewhere along the journey, that the wait was not worth it? He shoved the hand with the envelope under the pillow that he cradled protectively in front of himself, closed his eyes and sighed.

He was tired; so tired; more exhausted than he realized a person could be. He thought about all that awaited him and sighed again.

He missed Mark.

He missed Mark, and he knew enough now to understand what that said about him. He was crying silently by the time his limbs began to grow heavy and the relief of sleep encroached to numb his brain. His last coherent thought was that he hoped he never woke up again.

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End, Chapter 14


	15. The Brood

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 15: The Brood**

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It was the wisest purchase he had ever made, in his entire, miserable life.

After Kaitlin – after she tried to leave and he had to punish her; after Guantanamo – after he cold-cocked than sanctimonious Drill Sergeant; after he settled in L.A., lonely and forgotten; he was so happy when Jeff found him, and came to live with him. At least, Mark had understood that Jeff was coming so that they could live together. He was even convinced that his smart, important little brother, with his impressive new job in the federal government, was buying a sweet little house for the two of them. The night Mark had gone over there to see Jeff, he had all of his clothes in the back seat of the Saturn – he thought he would be staying.

The fiancé was a terrible disappointment.

Mark slunk back to his cave and determined never to go to that house again, but Jeff had been persistent. Mark had been touched, and pleased, every time Jeff showed up at the apartment. The brothers would spend hours together, and it was just as Mark had known it could be. Except for that damn cell phone.

Sometimes they were interrupted by the fiancé, who wanted his brother to stop at the store for milk on his way 'home', and that rankled. As long as she was doing shit like that, Jeff would never understand that his home was with Mark.

When it wasn't her, it was that damn Agent Eppes, Jeff's supervising agent; or someone else from the F.B.I. Mark was proud of Jeff, but when his little brother came to live with him, he intended to take care of him. Jeff wouldn't have to work at such a demanding job, anymore. His time would be his own; his – and Mark's.

One Saturday afternoon, when they were trying to watch a game on the television, the damn thing rang four times. The fiancé called twice; someone Mark didn't know – and _that_ was disturbing on a whole new level – phoned once; and finally Eppes demanded Jeff's presence at a crime scene. Jeff left over Mark's protests, and in a jealous rage the older man booted up his computer and Googled® for less than five minutes. In a week, he had a tri-band cell phone jammer. Although illegal in the States, the exporter in London experienced no qualms shipping a few thousand units there every month anyway.

Mark didn't have to compete with Jeff's cell phone after that, and he was temporarily happy…until Jeff went away again just a few weeks later. People tried to tell him Jeff had been killed in the line of duty. Even his own father stood crying in his apartment, new suit in hand, and for a while, Mark was fooled. He refused to go to the service, concentrating instead on finding out everything he could about Agent Eppes, the man responsible for Jeff's death. When he discovered that Eppes also had a smart younger brother, the idea was hatched: Eppes could only pay his debt by sacrificing his own brother.

Mark had considered a simple killing, but soon decided that would not punish Eppes enough. The ultimate plan was obviously a gift from God. The Deity must have wanted it that way, since everything came together quickly. Mark was able to use his tax refund to rent just the right secluded cabin in Northern California, in the Sierras, and the things he had studied and observed while at Guantanamo proved invaluable. He was sure it was a "God thing" when, after the second incarceration in the smokehouse, Jeff had reincarnated himself into Charlie's body.

Oh, how Mark had loved those last few weeks at the cabin. Even though he occasionally had difficulty making Jeff understand who he was, the time together was wonderful. Even when Jeff was ill, and Mark had to care for him almost as if he was an infant…. Well, it was time he would always treasure. God's plan, as God's plans always are, was perfect. Since Jeff looked like Charlie Eppes, there would still be much pain involved for the original target.

Mark was almost giddy when they headed back to L.A. For one thing, Jeff had wanted to stay with him in the cabin forever. That was what Mark wanted too, and he would work hard to make it happen. The police had searched his apartment just a few hours after they arrived, and while Jeff had delivered his lines well at police headquarters and returned to Mark like a carrier pigeon, he was obviously distraught and frightened when he got home. That was why Mark started using the phone jammer again. He didn't want Jeff trying to place any calls when he wasn't home to know about it.

Now, the phone jammer would come in handy once more. The compact, black, diamond-shaped unit was nestled in his backpack with several bottles of water, a hunting knife, a Saturday Night Special he'd picked up on the streets of East L.A., a flashlight, a small pair of field glasses, and a couple of power bars. He had decided to hike into the cabin that afternoon, sticking to the treeline to avoid detection. He would place the phone jammer at the corner of the house; it was low-power, only completely effective for 32 feet or so, but combined with the high elevation and remote location, it would almost certainly complete its mission. Bill Bradford would not be checking in at the office this afternoon; he would not hear of the mysterious 'Dave' who was headed his way.

Mark would lurk about the property until the sun went down, a reconnaissance mission. How many people were in the house? Where were they located? Was Jeff in a place from which he could be silently extricated in the night, or would Mark have to remove a few obstacles first? Either way, he would go in at 0200.

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Colby had taken Larry and the panel van back to the airport; they had removed the Maverick's plates at the cabin, and replaced the Ford's rightful identification. Arthur Tutwiller returned his rental without incident. The two men then grabbed a shuttle to the main terminal, where they found that Larry would have to wait just a few hours before catching a connecting flight to Portland that would eventually get him back to D.C. For a moment he considered just waiting for the direct red-eye flight, but he was anxious to return to Megan, so he opted for the scenic route. Larry purchased his ticket – as Dr. Larry Fleinhardt, again – and Colby walked him as far as security would allow. Then he wandered to baggage claim, where David would pick him up.

The bald man was frowning when Colby climbed into the pick-up almost an hour later, setting off his internal alarms. "What?"

"We made good time," David shared. "So after I dropped Amita off, I cruised by the apartment. No Saturn. Went by the diner; manager said Danielson never showed up for his shift last night." He allowed a small grin. "He also mentioned that his dishwasher disappeared, and asked me if I wanted a job."

Colby snickered, but didn't comment. Instead he reached for his cell. "I should call Don," he remarked.

"Already tried. Out of service area."

Colby groaned. "Great. Bradford said cell reception is iffy up there."

"I figure we keep trying," David answered, pulling carefully into the stream of traffic. "It might kick in at any moment, according to what the doc said. We'll cruise back past the apartment, and then wait to see if Danielson shows up for work tonight."

Colby considered a moment and then agreed. "Yeah. Even if he's out looking for Charlie, there's no way he could find out where he is. Still, if we can't reach Don by tomorrow, we'll drive back up."

Sinclair smiled. "Wright's gonna love that."

Colby shrugged. "What's not to love?"

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When Charlie awoke, there was a shadow looming over him, and he cried out in terror.

Don hurried to calm him down. "Sorry, sorry, Charlie. It's just me. Don."

Charlie fought to control his breathing and reached for the pillow he had released during his spring back into the wall. "What…what's wrong?" He whimpered as the difficult truth sunk into his addled brain. "It's dark."

Don smiled, even though Charlie could not see him. "No kidding. You've been asleep a long time, Charlie. Bradford's already turned in for the night, and Dad and I are headed that way; it's almost 11 o' clock."

"I don't like the dark," Charlie said, and Don wondered if he had heard anything he said.

"Want me to turn the light on?"

"The one in the bathroom, please?" Charlie's voice sounded tiny; scared to death, and Don hurried to the bathroom. He left the connecting door to the bedroom open wide, and a hazy band of light fell across the end of Charlie's bed.

His brother's breathing immediately calmed, but Don felt his own respirations increasing in repressed anger. What the hell had Danielson done to him? "I…didn't mean to wake you up," he apologized, standing at the end of the bed. "Just wanted to check on you before I turned in. You want anything? Water? Food?"

Charlie had rearranged himself to slump in a semi-reclining position, his back against the wall. His face was almost completely obscured by darkness, but Don felt his brother's eyes on him. "What?"

He was thinking maybe _'water'_, and was completely unprepared for what came out of Charlie's mouth. "Have you always hated me?"

Don's mouth gaped. _"What?"_

Charlie went on almost dreamily. "I remember some things. I think. I've looked at the photos. When we're in them together, you're never touching me, you're never standing close to me."

Don protested. "Now, wait a minute. I remember that one when I was holding you right after you came home from the hospital; and another, on your second or third birthday, you were sitting in my lap in the back yard!"

"There are some of those 'set-up by the parents'-type pictures in there," agreed Charlie. "You're never smiling, in those."

Don let his anger get the best of him for a moment. "Damn it, Charlie…." Even in the darkness he could see his brother shrink back, and he forced himself to calm. They listened to each other breathe for a while before Don decided there was no time like the present. "All-right, I admit it. When we were kids, I resented you…but hell, Charlie, I was five years old when you were born; I had been the King of the Universe for a long time! I was used to getting _all_ the attention…"

"And then I was born," Charlie interrupted, "and you got none."

Don sighed. "No, Charlie. I mean, I'm sure it felt that way to a 5-year-old, but that's not the way it was. I just got less than I wanted." Charlie didn't have a response for that, so Don continued. "I'm sure I was a little jerk to you sometimes, but we were kids, Charlie. That's what brothers do when they're kids; treat each other badly."

"What about when you were 16?" Charlie shot back. "At what point does that excuse no longer apply?"

Don frowned again, confused. "16?"

"You got your license," Charlie remembered, and Mom said you could drive us to Baskin and Robbins® for ice cream. You said you didn't want to; that you had to watch out for me all day, and dragging your little brother along on your first solo drive was not your idea of fun." Don stood stunned for so long that Charlie began to doubt the memory. "Didn't that happen?" he questioned in a small voice.

Don plunked down on the end of the bed, and hung his head for a moment. When he looked back in Charlie's direction, he confessed. "Yeah. Yeah, it did, Charlie. Maybe I was a little more than 'normally' resentful for a 'normal' amount of time."

"It was an abnormal situation," Charlie said quietly.

Don nodded his head. "It was. But…I'm an adult, now, Charlie. When I look back, I see that everyone did the best they could. No-one asked for you to be born with the gifts you were given. Not you, or me, or Mom, or Dad. And we all made mistakes along the way. All anyone can ask of anyone else is that he – or she – _try_." He let a smile enter his voice. "Sometimes I hated being a big brother, Charlie; and sometimes, I loved it. I listened to you brag to your little friends about some game you saw me play, and it meant more to me than any trophy. You drew me a diagram of the basic geometrical shapes and colored it for my 9th birthday; I had that sheet of paper until Kim accidentally threw it out in Albuquerque. Even now…I'm happy that you've bonded with the team and the guys appreciate your contributions, but when I stepped into the break room a couple of years ago and you were commiserating with Colby over bad first dates, I was jealous as hell. You should have been telling that story to me; you're _my_ brother, not his!"

Charlie tilted his head, which was leaning against the wall. "Really." He didn't sound quite convinced.

"When you disappeared, Buddy, I was miserable. Then when we figured out that Danielson probably took you in a sick attempt to punish me, and I realized that what was happening to you was my fault – I really fell apart. Dad had to save my life. Alcohol poisoning."

Charlie raised his head, and leaned forward a little into the light. "It wasn't your fault, Don," he reassured his brother. "What happened to the real Jeff was not your fault, and what happened to me was not your fault."

"I want to believe that," murmured Don quietly, "almost as badly as I want you to believe that none of this is your fault, either."

"I'm tired, now," Charlie avoided, lying back down in his cocoon. "Leave the light on?"

Don knew when he was dismissed. "Sure, Charlie," he answered as he stood. "Whatever you need."

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The large black man – apparently this 'Dr. Bradford' – had almost caught him when he came outside near sunset, and walked to the lake. Mark had been around the back of the cabin, peering in some windows, and was just about to round the corner of the building to the front when the door opened. He had retreated immediately, his heart pounding, all the way to the treeline on the other side of the clearing. There he sat in the shadows of a great pine and thought about what he knew.

Or, what he _didn't_ know. He didn't know for sure that Jeff was in there; he had not been able to see him anywhere. On the other hand, he had seen both the father and Agent Eppes. Besides the doctor, there had been no-one else. Were they deprogramming him the same way Mark had brainwashed him? Perhaps he was locked up somewhere. The only outbuilding on the property was an unlocked shed containing gardening tools, some boxes of moldy books and a couple of old electric fans – but still, they could be holding Jeff in one of the rooms inside the cabin. The seclusion of the location, added to the fact that no-one had come outside for hours, suggested to Mark that this was a strong possibility.

He had seen several closed doors, although none of them appeared to be padlocked. Mark was still unsure as to his course of action when the lights began to go off around 11. At this point he scurried back across the lot and planted himself under an open window, just in time to hear Agent Eppes rapping softly on something solid. "Charlie?" he had called, and Mark heard a door creak. The agent had gone into the room, and there was a low murmur of voices for quite a while, but Mark didn't care. He knew where Jeff was, now. Mark was crouching under an open window just a few feet away, and the familiar thrill of conquest began to course through his veins.

In just a few hours, Jeff would he his again.

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End, Chapter 15


	16. The Betrayal

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 16: The Betrayal**

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A hand clamped over his mouth, and even before he was awake Charlie fought furiously. Pitiful grunts intended to be terrified yells were swallowed by the sweaty skin that encompassed him. It was heavy and restrictive over his face, firm and unyielding over the expanse of his body, pressing him into the mattress. His ears were filled with a hissing that eventually coalesced into individual words. "It's me," the breathless whisper insisted. "It's me. Your brother." The syllables were inexplicably comforting, and Charlie's struggle weakened. His wide eyes, on the edge of frantic, locked and focused on those of the man lying on top of him. A tender, tender smile, and his opponent rolled away, still keeping one hand clamped over Charlie's mouth. "Hush," he soothed. "I'm here now; everything is going to be all-right." Charlie settled even more, and the whisper caressed him. "I'm going to let go of you, now. I'm trusting you, brother." The eyes still locked with Charlie's grew inquisitive behind the shining light of undeniable love. "Okay?"

Charlie nodded and his assailant twisted to sit on the edge of the bed, the hand still clamped over his mouth now holding Charlie in place easily by itself, with more caress than force. Slowly, the hand was drawn away, a fond smile in the darkness. "I missed you," he shared.

Charlie inhaled a struggling breath and exhaled the name of his brother. "D-don?"

The effect on Danielson was instantaneous. His smile turned into a grimace of disgust, and the hand still hovering so near Charlie's face reformed into a fist that connected with the mathematician's jaw with so much force that his head flopped toward the wall and he tasted metal as a chunk of filling broke off a molar and flew out his mouth. "You will never speak that name again," Danielson whispered angrily. "You are _my_ brother. Mine."

Charlie had coughed and spluttered a little when Danielson's fist had connected. He tried hard to repress all further reaction to the abuse, although he winced as he turned his head back on the pillow to regard Danielson with dull eyes. "Mark," he rasped, unable to get his voice above a whisper even if he had tried, "Mark. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, don't put me back in there."

Danielson's eyes narrowed. "Who am I?" he tested.

"You're my brother," Charlie answered automatically.

"What is your name?", Danielson further inquired.

"J-J-Jeff," Charlie stuttered.

Danielson nodded briefly and stood quietly. "Hurry," he commanded. "I can set you free, and we will leave these horrible miscreants forever."

Charlie looked around and blinked a few times, and then started to struggle with the blankets in an attempt to sit up. Danielson abruptly sat on the edge of the bed again, extending a hand to pull Charlie toward him. "Jeff, I have missed you so much," he choked, embracing Charlie's thin shoulders.

When Charlie did not respond Danielson pulled back a little to look at him suspiciously. Charlie spoke in an emotionless tone. "I'm not dressed."

Danielson couldn't help another grin as he reached up for another caress. The cheek was stubbled, and he vowed that as soon as they were safely away, he would help Jeff shave. "It's good you left the bathroom light on," he congratulated his brother. "No-one will be alerted; your clothing is on the floor. Hurry, and if you use the toilet, do not flush; we must be silent." He leaned over to reach into the open backpack at his feet and withdrew the hunting knife. "Don't make me regret not killing everyone in this house." Charlie's eyes widened at the sight of the 6-inch blade, and he reached out to touch the cold steel. Danielson drew the knife back a little. "Careful, Jeff. Now, hurry; and leave the bathroom door open."

Danielson stood again and backed away from the bed slowly, dangling the pack from one forearm, leading Charlie to the door that led into the bathroom. Too shell-shocked to worry about tiny facts such as having slept for almost 12 hours without getting up to use the facilities, he ignored the commode and started pulling on clothing. Jeans, a t-shirt, socks; he sat on the edge of the bathtub to slip on his tennis shoes. Danielson stood in the open doorway and watched the entire time, whispering a running monologue of disconnected insanity. "We'll find a place in the mountains and be together, just like we always said. Dad was wrong, he was wrong to believe them. I should have trusted you to find a way to leave that bitch and come to me."

Charlie looked up from his seat on the edge of the fiberglass tub and risked comment. "You didn't hurt them?"

Mark's eyes darkened in fury and he plunged the knife into the open backpack, withdrawing the snub-nose .38 this time. "I should have. I was a sentimental fool, and only wanted to find you, but I see now that I was foolish. You will help me line them all up in a row and slit their disgusting little throats."

Charlie paled and rose shakily, taking half a step in Mark's direction. "Please," he started; and then stopped. He took another nervous half-step. "M-Mark, if you do that, they will never stop looking for us. We will never find a place secluded enough, and we won't be able to work; I can't be alone, Mark." Charlie was whispering, and Mark was leaning a little to hear him. "I don't want to live without you again. I don't want us to live looking over our shoulders all the time, either. Let's just leave. We'll get out the same way you got in, and we'll just leave." Mark seemed to hesitate, and Charlie went for the closing argument. "I missed you too, brother. The sooner we're out of here, the sooner we can be together."

Danielson smiled broadly, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Perhaps you're right, Jeff." He winked at Charlie. "Now, pee." Charlie just stared at him and Mark was tempted to giggle, but that might give away their position. "Pee," he whispered again. "We have to go out a window and hike to the highway, and you know you always want to stop 10 minutes into the trip."

Charlie blushed, for as soon as Danielson had started talking about it, he had to go; but he wasn't sure he could with a madman standing four feet away watching. "Can you turn around?" he whispered miserably.

This time Mark did giggle, although he tried to do it quietly. "Wuss," he teased affectionately. "All-right; but remember, don't flush."

He rolled his eyes once and then turned his back to Charlie – only to find himself face-to-face with Agent Don Eppes, who stood silhouetted in the doorway that led to the hall, his service weapon steady in a two-handed grip and aimed at Danielson's head.

"Give me one reason," he growled, "why I should not drop you where you stand."

Shocked though he was, Danielson still recovered quickly, raising his own .38. "I will give you six," he offered. "Gotta save a little ammo for your father, and the doctor."

Charlie, meanwhile, had found sweet release at the first available opportunity, and now found that he could not abort mid-stream. He could see Danielson and his gun clearly in the mirror. "Stop!" he yelled, as much to his penis as to his dueling brothers. "Stop!"

Danielson chambered a round. "Don't worry, Jeff," he called, no longer trying to be quiet. "I'll let you finish at least one of them."

Don sneered. "Charlie will never go with you, you stupid bastard. Besides, my father and Bradford went out the front door five minutes ago. It's just me and you."

Danielson tightened his grip convulsively. "You're lying. None of you heard me in time."

"Did I not mention the whole F.B.I. thing?" Don asked innocently. "By the way, you're under arrest. Drop it in three, or drop with it in four."

Charlie at last was able to tuck it in and was still buttoning frantically as he skidded up behind Mark. "Please stop this," he begged.

Don swore under his breath; now his shot was no longer clear. "Charlie, get back!"

"Jeff," purred Danielson, "are you quite ready to go?" He squeezed the trigger, and a deafening blast reverberated around the room. Don had seen the beginning of the squeeze and tried to lunge out of the way, but the round clipped the top of his left shoulder anyway, his own fingers spasmodically tightening on the Glock. An answering, even more deafening blast preceded the bullet that slammed solidly into Danielson's chest, spinning him around and spraying blood all over a screaming Charlie.

Danielson fell headlong into Charlie, the pumping blood of one chest leaving streaks of crimson on the other, and slowly slid down the length of his body to the floor. As Mark collapsed, he pressed the Saturday Night Special into Charlie's shaking hands. "Finish him," he gasped, continuing his slump until he was prone on the tile, lying in a pool of his own blood. He looked up at his horrified brother and heaved out a few more words. "Do it for me, Jeff. I love you."

Charlie tore his eyes off the spectacle at his feet long enough to look at Don, who sat half-in, half-out of the stream of light from the bathroom, a dark river of blood soaking his white t-shirt. "Charlie," he ground out painfully, still waving the Glock toward Danielson on the floor, albeit with only one hand, now. "Get out of the way. Let me finish him."

"Jeff," croaked Danielson, and Charlie took one staggering step toward Don, the .38 in his hand. "Jeff."

"Charlie," pleaded Don. His brother now completely blocked Danielson. "Dear God, Charlie."

Charlie sobbed and raised his hand to rub it on his shirt, seeming to see the gun he held for the first time. He looked down as he heard Danielson whisper his name again. His eyes widened as he took in the scene before him; the terrible blood, the devastating love, the glinting steel.

"Charlie," Don grunted, on the move, crawling through the beam of refracted ionic particles. Every inch made him a better and closer target for the hunting knife.

In the same breath – in what would turn out to be a last breath -- Mark Danielson let the knife fly; and Charlie Eppes squeezed the trigger of the .38.

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End, Chapter 16


	17. The Ballyhoo

**Title: Grand Theft Brother  
**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 17: The Ballyhoo**

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Alan and Bradford were only about forty feet down the gravel driveway when Bill tried his cell again, out of habit. When the 9-1-1 call went through, the normally well-spoken doctor was so flabbergasted that he tripped over his words so much Alan finally wrested the phone away from him and took over the call himself. It had been difficult for Don to get them both out of the cabin. Bradford was a former cop, after all, and a pissed-off homeowner; every fiber of his being wanted to be in on the take-down. Don was already physically restraining Alan by the time he had dragged him into Bradford's room -- later, they would all notice finger-shaped bruises on Alan's arms and not mention it -- and the hardened F.B.I. agent nearly resorted to tears, as he begged the physician to get his father to safety. "Don't just stash him somewhere and come back," Don had pleaded. "No matter what he promises you, don't trust him not to come back in here himself." Alan had turned to bellow a protest and his son had actually clamped a hand over his mouth. "Quiet," he hissed. Alan's eyes above the hand were furious but he nodded once, and Don let go. He surprised them both when he abruptly leaned in and kissed his father on the cheek. "Go, Dad. Get to the highway and flag down some help; or maybe the cell phones will have reception down there. I'll wait as long as I can" -- his dark eyes glinted dark in the room lit only by a nightlight Bradford's daughter had left years ago -- "but I will not let that bastard take Charlie again."

So the two older men carried their shoes and padded in socks for the front door. A long hallway, a slight curve into the great room and the great room itself separated the door from Charlie's room, where Don said he had heard a disturbance during a 2-a.m. milk run. Peering through a crack in the door he had seen someone lying on top of his brother and had repressed his own desire to rush the room long enough to retrieve his service weapon from his own room, and send his father to safety. Alan Eppes and Bill Bradford had slipped on their shoes at the bottom of the porch, and run for the gravel drive like men half their age.

Don stood in the hallway, his back to the wall and his gun in the air, and listened to the movement in the room. He waited until he was sure his father was a good distance away, and then peeked through the crack again. The bed was empty. His heart thudded in his ears so loudly he feared he might give his position away, and he backed off again, forcing himself to think. There were no windows in the room, and no-one had come through the door. They had to be in the bathroom, which he could not clearly see through the crack between the door's hinges.

He was going to have to go in.

He moved the firearm into position and slowly pushed open the door with his own sock-clad foot. Danielson was standing in the bathroom doorway, his back to Don. He couldn't see his brother -- but he could hear him. In the stillness of the cabin, the whispers were not as silent as Charlie and Danielson thought they were. "Let's just leave," Charlie was saying. "We'll get out the same way you got in, and we'll just leave." Don's heart fell and Charlie went on. "I missed you too, brother. The sooner we're out of here, the sooner we can be together."

_Aw, shit, no_, Don groaned inwardly. Charlie was going willingly, then.

He watched Danielson advance into the bathroom and whisper something to his brother, proprietorially, actually giggling a little at the end, and his blood boiled while he solidified his grip on his Glock. Charlie was not in his right mind. His right mind had been perforated, perhaps forever, by this sunuvabitch. Don didn't care if Charlie was willing to leave again with Danielson; _he_, Don, was not ready to let him go.

Alan and Bradford had gotten far enough away from the jammer to call in the troops, but were still close enough to the house to clearly hear the first two shots. "Oh, my God," Alan breathed, reaching out to clutch Bradford's arm.

Bill looked at him in the moonlight. He was years removed from his police days, and had no weapon, but that was not the biggest of his problems at the moment. "I don't suppose you'll keep going and meet the deputies at the highway?"

Alan looked longingly at the cabin. "What are you going to do?"

"There should be a shovel in the garden shed," Bradford answered.

"Are there pruning shears?" asked Alan. "I wield a pretty impressive pruning sheer."

Bradford knew this was the stupidest thing he had ever done -- planning to take on a madman with a shovel, and dragging a septagenarian civilian with him -- but still the two men had backtracked to the shed and were pulling open the door when they heard the third shot.

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Charlie barely felt the sting.

The hunting knife sliced cleanly through the thigh of his jeans, altering the trajectoty 17.9 degrees and the speed by approximately 27 centimeters per second. The solid 'thunk' as it buried itself in the bedroom door, missing Don entirely, was easily drowned out by the sound of the Saturday Night Special discharge. Temporarily hearing-impaired, Charlie dropped to his knees and found all of his other senses heightened. The odor of a thick layer of smoke; beneath that, the coppery smell of blood. The light streaming from the bathroom illuminated Mark clearly, from his unseeing eyes still looking at Charlie to the quarter-sized char in the center of his forehead. He felt a hand dragging at his shoulder, but could hear nothing but ringing in his ears. "I killed him," he sobbed, unable to take his eyes off Danielson's body. "I killed him." Some remnant of his mind reminded him that Don was somewhere, shot and bleeding, and he suddenly became desperate to find him. He turned his head and looked without recognition at the person next to him on the floor. "My brother," he cried plaintively, "my brother..."

Don was in semi-shock himself, having just witnessed Charlie kill another man, but his heart froze and cracked as he made the inevitable connection. Charlie believed the dead man was his brother.

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Colby groaned and rolled toward the bedside table, snatching the annoying cell up and fumbling with it in his attempts to flip the unit open. It couldn't be time for him to spell David on the Danielson search; he felt as if he'd just fallen into bed five minutes ago. At last the phone was properly applied to his ear. "Yeah," he said blearily.

Sinclair sounded excited. "I'm five miles away, Granger. Get up and get dressed."

_Shit_, thought Colby. It really was time, already. "Ugh," he grunted. "Should I check the apartment or the diner, first?"

"You should get your ass dressed and meet me downstairs," answered David. "Those LAPD detectives just called me. Aaronson and Simpson."

Colby perked up, and pushed himself into a sitting position on the edge of his bed. "They got something?"

"You might say that," David answered in a grim voice. "The sheriff up there called them in. They've got a shooting and a DB at the cabin."

_"What?"_ Colby stood, squinting as he turned on the bedside lamp and reaching for his jeans on the end of the bed. "Who's dead?"

David sighed into the phone. "Danielson," he replied. "Charlie killed Mark Danielson."

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"I told you," Don said numbly to the uniformed officer. He refused to refer to Danielson as a 'vic'. "The DB kidnapped my brother and tortured him for weeks. Then we...we got him back...and he must have stalked us, or something. I don't know how else he found us up here. I got up around 2 in the morning and decided to go to the kitchen for a glass of milk. When I got outside my room, I noticed that the hallway was really cold; I saw that the window was open, and the screen had been removed. I knew this guy was still at large and I was worried about Charlie, so I...look, I told you all this already." He shifted his shoulder uncomfortably under the pressure bandage applied by the responding paramedic. "I want to see my brother."

The young deputy looked truly sorry. "Sheriff says to keep you all separate until the investigating officers arrive from L.A."

"Is he all-right?" Don insisted. "I saw the EMTs with him."

The deputy nodded. "I guess that knife we found sticking in the door sliced into his leg -- there was some blood on the blade." Don paled and the deputy hurried on. "It wasn't serious. The EMTs put some butterflies on it. He's pretty whacked out, of course. That shrink wants at him pretty bad, but like I said, the Sheriff wants everybody separate."

Don stood up shakily, worry clouding his voice. "You mean you've got him somewhere alone? Charlie's alone?"

The deputy placed one hand uncertainly on his holster. "We can't have people comparing stories," he argued. "We don't get murders every day around here like you do in the city, but we know how to investigate one!"

Don scowled. "You brown-nosing idiot," he grunted. "You see the blood all over me? I told you, this is not murder. It's self-defense. The bastard was trying to kill us... Listen, take Bradford's statement first, then; leave an officer in the room with them so they don't discuss the case. Just please -- please don't leave Charlie alone."

The deputy was entirely too sympathetic to last very long in this line of work, Don could see that -- and he was playing it as hard as he could. "I've been assigned to stay with you," the officer said apologetically. "Can't really leave you in here alone while I go hunt down the Sheriff."

"Cuff me," Don suggested immediately. "Cuff me to the bed." He didn't even have to work at adding desperation to his tone, and he could see the young deputy waver. "Look, I've got a pair myself, in the top drawer of that dresser. You can cuff my ankles, too -- take the key with you. Anything. Please. My brother is terrified and...and afraid of the dark. Please."

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He hadn't been able to get a word that made sense out of the blood-covered, curly-haired apparent deaf-mute, so the Sheriff finally sequestered him in a room down the hall where there were a couple of empty bunk beds, left a deputy with him from his rapidly-depleting work force, and moved on to higher game. The psychiatrist was causing a ruckus, bellowing so loudly the Sheriff could hear him through the wall, so he moved into that room next. "Just stop yer caterwauling in here," he demanded sourly as he entered the pink frilly room. He frowned at the deputy assigned to watch Bradford. "Miller, cain't you control this fella?"

Bradford, who had been sitting on one of the beds, stretched to his full height and puffed out his chest -- although he wasn't sure how impressive a picture he was in red silk pajamas. "This is my home," he began in an affronted tone. "I am a victim here; hardly a suspect. I have an extremely fragile patient with me here this weekend, and I demand access to him immediately."

The Sheriff, as tall as Bradford and nearly as heavy, sauntered up to stand directly in front of him. "I don't care," he sneered. "I got me a homicide."

Bradford didn't give an inch. "There was no homicide in this house tonight. Oh, there were at least two attempted homicides, from the looks of things, but as for your dead body -- I would classify that as a 'consequence'. He is not an invited guest in this home; a ladder from my garden shed is leaning against my house -- where I did not put it -- a screen has been cut from my window -- which I assure you I did not do -- and two of my guests are bleeding. Dr. Eppes is a well-known mathematician. When he feels better, I'm sure he'll help you do the math."

A thunderous cloud crossed the Sheriff's face. "These people your patients, or your guests? Get yer story straight. _Doctor._"

Bradford seethed, but clenched his teeth to clamp it down. When he spoke, it was with a voice that was calm, and deadly. "Agent Eppes -- you do know you're restraining an F.B.I. field agent? Agent Eppes is a former patient of mine. However, we became friends and I felt that doctor-patient boundaries had been crossed, so I suggested he obtain another therapist. Should I be presented with a court order, I will present documentation from my files to corroborate. In the course of this friendship, Agent Eppes asked me to evaluate his brother and recommend the proper course of therapy he should pursue; Dr. Eppes has recently been subjected to some very trying circumstances, and Agent Eppes felt that a weekend at my cabin would be far less traumatic for his brother than any clinical setting. I agreed, and here we are. Not only has Dr. Eppes been presented with the additional trauma of having to fight for his very life, as well as the lives of his brother, and father, he has been required to endure the asinine, politically-motivated, inept investigative techniques of a backwoods fool. I assure you, it is no longer a question of whether or not you will be sued, sir. It only remains to be seen for how much, and by how many. I would estimate that the cost increases exponentially with each passing moment."

Red infused the Sheriff's face and the deputy assigned to Bradford took a step closer to the door, almost sure that he actually saw steam coming from his boss's ears. Deputy Miller was nearly hit in the back when Deputy Snodgrass thrust open the door and burst into the room. "Sheriff," the youngest officer sputtered, "I think maybe we shouldn't be keeping Dr. Bradford from the shooter. Sir. Maybe. Sir."

The Sheriff blew out a cheekful of hot air and clenched his fists at his sides. "I can't wait to turn this over to LAPD," he mumbled, stepping away from the suddenly-intimidating red silk pajamas. He pointed at Snodgrass. "You. Return to your assigned position and wait for me to come in there and fire your ass." Snodgrass fled and the Sheriff jabbed a finger toward Deputy Miller. "You. Stick with this one. Take him down to where we're holding the shooter; DO NOT allow Drs. Bradford and Eppes to discuss the current case." He was halfway to the door when he whirled and glared at Bradford. "You. Put on a robe, at least. You're making my deputies ill."

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The young deputy slammed back into the room as if shot from a cannon, and looked at Don a little wildly. He swallowed. "I think I'm in trouble," he squeaked. "Can I leave you cuffed until the Sheriff gets in here to fire me? I want him to see I didn't leave you completely unattended."

Don grinned. "Hell, I don't care," he answered. "If you managed to get Bradford and Charlie together, you can gag me with one of my own dirty socks if it'll help you out." His grin faltered a little.

It looked like Deputy Snodgrass was actually considering it.

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His thick, velour, navy blue robe belted securely over his red silk pajamas, William Bradford sat down carefully next to Dr. Charles Eppes on the bottom bunk. Two uniformed deputies --Bradford's Miller and whoever had been watching Charlie -- exchanged shrugs and stood on either side of the closed door, watching them. Bradford felt a little like an exhibit in a zoo.

He was careful not to touch Charlie, and to speak softly; the way he used to speak to his children, when they were frightened. "Charlie." He observed the blood on the t-shirt that Charlie had not yet been allowed to change, and the spatters on his pale face, which he had not yet been allowed to wash, and the gleam of a white bandage peeking through a hole in his jeans. Bradford wasn't kidding; he probably would sue that idiot Sheriff. "Are you..." The psychiatrist found himself in an odd and unfamiliar position. What should he say? _Are you hurt?_ Hell, Charlie was hurt before he got to the cabin. _Are you in pain?_ If he wasn't, he was already as dead as Danielson, and Bradford discovered he'd rather not know the answer to that just yet. _Are you all right?_ Not by anyone's estimation.

Bradford was still trying to decide when Charlie surprised him by speaking himself, his voice low and raspy, as if he was suffering from a sore throat. "Is my brother okay?" Deputy Miller stiffened, ready to jump in if the discussion got much more specific. Bradford stiffened a little himself, wondering just how confused Charlie was and who he was asking about. Charlie had been looking down at his hands, clasped in his lap, but now he turned his head slightly and looked at Bradford, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Don," he clarified. "Is Don all-right?"

Bradford relaxed a little and nodded. "I think so. Paramedics treated him onsite, and didn't order immediate transport to a hospital."

Charlie sighed, nodded, and looked back down toward his hands. His filthy hands. Hands that had killed another human being. Hands that should be cut off. "Good," he exhaled slowly. "Good. Because I don't think I am."

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End, Chapter 17


	18. The Bring Together

**Title: ****Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 18: The Bring-Together**

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Aaronson questioned Charlie, in the room where the Sheriff had sequestered him, while Simpson took Don. Neither LAPD detective was a forensic expert, but experienced eyes suggested that Danielson had suffered two 'kill' shots. From the information the Sheriff was feeding them, he had been plugged once by each brother. The Sheriff agreed to pull his men back to secure the scene until the body was removed, and they positioned themselves safely out of the house and stood around in the driveway, wishing for donuts, while LAPD took over the suspects. Victims. Whatever.

Aaronson remembered Charlie from his bizarre visit to Parker Center. Even at the time, it had been apparent that there had been some mind-control involved; there just wasn't a lot authorities could do about it unless and until Charlie's family managed to get him declared incompetent. The detective had seen this sort of thing before; mostly with young people who fell into some sort of cult relationship, and it was a frustrating experience that had not left him entirely unsympathetic. So, after removing Bradford as far as the hallway and recording a quick five-minute statement from him regarding his role in the night's events, Aaronson allowed the doctor to return and sit with Charlie during the interview. He needed to let the forensics team that had traveled to the cabin with them take some photographs of Charlie before he could allow him to clean up, but Aaronson felt he should ease him into that, so he conducted the questioning first.

He didn't start at the beginning, but somewhere in the middle. "Dr. Eppes, can you tell me where you got the gun?"

Charlie blinked for a moment at his jeans, fingering the hole left by the knife, and then looked across the room at the detective, who was sitting in a chair he had dragged in from the kitchen. "He brought it," Charlie answered simply.

"Did you take it from him?" asked the detective. "Was there a fight?"

Charlie sighed a little and shifted so that he was closer to Dr. Bradford where they sat side-by-side on the bottom bunk. "No," he answered.

Aaronson wasn't getting much help, here; he feared his subject might be in a form of shock. He decided to try a more open-ended question. "Tell me how you got the gun."

Charlie's left leg began bouncing up and down and he looked fearfully at Bradford. The psychiatrist nodded, and smiled. "It's all-right," he encouraged.

Charlie put one hand on his leg to try to slow it down, still playing with the frayed edges of his jeans on the other leg. He regarded the detective, expressionless. "He...made me get out of bed, and go into the bathroom to get dressed. He had a knife. There was a knife, but then he shoved it into his pack and pulled out this gun, instead. We were talking about everyone else; my father, and brother, and Dr. Bradford. He took out the gun and said that we would line them all up and kill them, but I talked him out of it." Bradford's blood ran cold and he made a mental note to inform his billing clerk that all of the Eppes were to receive their lifetime therapeutic needs, free of charge. He barely heard Aaronson ask Charlie how he had talked Danielson out of it. Charlie looked at the detective as if he should already know. "I lied," he answered. "I told him I would go with him, and...and that if we didn't leave a bunch of...bodies...people would leave us alone, and we could be together." A look that could only be classified as confusion crossed his face. "Or something like that. I don't know; I was faking it. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

Charlie looked away from both men, toward the wall, obviously embarrassed. "I would have gone with him, if it came to that; to keep them safe." He fidgeted, his discomfort growing. "I told him that I had missed him," he admitted in a rush of air. He turned his head quickly toward Bradford and tried to justify himself, looking a little frantic. "Sometimes, at the cabin, sometimes he was nice to me."

Bradford exchanged a look with the detective before he forced a small smile onto his face for Charlie. "That's fine, Charlie. I understand. It's perfectly normal to miss someone you've grown accustomed to being around." It was the best he could do, but Bradford wasn't sure it was enough.

Aaronson cleared his throat. "So you talked him out of it," he repeated. "Did he hand you the gun then?"

Charlie shook his head. "No. Don was there. I don't know how, I didn't see him or hear him, but suddenly he was there. They both had guns, then. Don was yelling at him to 'drop it', and I was yelling at them both to 'stop'...it was...horrible," he finished in a whisper.

Aaronson let him regroup for a while before the next question. "Who shot first?"

Charlie had been staring at his feet, but now he jerked his head up and narrowed his eyes. "Mark," he spat, the first sign of anger appearing. "Don told him he was under arrest, and Mark shot him. He shot my brother."

The detective tried to fill in the blanks. "So you took the gun and shot him."

Charlie raised a hand to rub at his temple. "No?" he questioned back. "I have a headache."

Aaronson tried again. "Just a few more minutes, Dr Eppes. After Mark shot Don, what happened?"

Charlie continued to rub at his head, and hiccupped. "D-Don fell, and, and, and fired, and, and, Mark...he spun around, so that he was facing me. H-he pushed the gun at me, and told me to finish it. He told me to kill Don." He sagged into Bradford a little, and the doctor was about to call a halt to everything when the professor sniffed and started speaking again. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it, and nobody was happy. Everybody was yelling at me, and...I don't know, I don't know...I saw the knife, again. Somehow, Mark got the knife, again, and he was going to throw it at Don." He dropped his hand from his forehead and looked with pleading eyes at Aaronson. "It was a really big knife."

Finally, the detective got the picture. "So you shot him then," he said gently. "So that he wouldn't hurt Don any more?"

Charlie actually smiled, melting both of the hardened men in the room, just a little. "Yes!" Just as suddenly, the smile turned into a frown, and he looked back at Bradford. "Did it work? Is the knife in Donny?"

Bradford patted him carefully on the knee, just below the gleaming white bandage. "It worked fine, Charlie," he assured his fragile patient. "It worked just fine."

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Down the hall, Simpson was obtaining corroborating evidence, first from Alan -- who made his brief contribution and then moved to the great room to wait for everybody -- and then from an exhausted and stressed Don. Even in his current state, his priorities fought to the surface. "I hit him point-blank in the chest," he pointed out near the end of the interview. "That was the kill shot. He was as good as dead before Charlie shot him."

Simpson felt for the guy. He had been required to kill in the line of duty himself, and it wasn't like it was on television. You didn't just holster your weapon and grab a beer. You spent the rest of your career trying not to do it again, and the rest of your life trying to make up for it -- no matter who the perp was, regardless of what he had done. Yet rather than focus on his own demons, the agent was concerned only with making sure those demons did not find his brother. "Autopsy will show us that," Simpson noted. He looked over his notes and stood. When Don stood with him, Simpson shrugged apologetically. "I gotta send someone in from forensics to process you. Samples, pictures. It shouldn't take long, and then you can go wait with your father."

Don frowned. "Are they gonna do that to Charlie, too?"

Simpson nodded. "Yeah. But we'll let the doc stay with him."

Don nodded. "Good. Okay." He stopped Simpson with his hand on the doorknob. "Hey!" The detective turned around, and Don regarded him with a raw plea in his eyes. "Could you remove the body as soon as you can? I don't want Charlie to see that again."

"Yeah," Simpson said, turning toward the door again. "I'll see what we can do about that."

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The EMT has used scissors to cut off Don's bloody t-shirt and bagged it as evidence for the forensics team. He had found one of his father's larger sweatshirts in the closet of the room they had been sharing, but in the end couldn't even get it off the hanger one-handed. Bradford had taken pity on him and loaned him a gigantic dress shirt that he dug up from somewhere. By the time forensics was through with him and he was released to wander at will, Don felt like a conspicuous idiot swimming in the white, fine linen button-down -- and the grey sweatpants he had been sleeping in. He was anxious to see his father and brother, though, so he headed for the great room anyway. Bradford had also found him a gigantic pair of sheepskin-lined Romeo slippers, and he clomped through the hall like a mismatched clown, dismayed to see that the DB was bagged but not gone. Because of that, he was relieved, if also disappointed, to see that Charlie was not in the great room yet, although the doctor was there talking to his father and pushing a stack of clothing into his arms.

"...came out and gave me the duffle you packed for him," the psychiatrist was saying, "but they have not removed Danielson yet. I suggest you take him just across the hall from the room he's in -- where Colby and David were staying -- and use that bathroom. By the time you're finished, LAPD should have Danielson out of here."

Alan nodded, looking worriedly at Don as he entered the great room and then back at Bradford. "Did you hear? None of these police could use their handi-talkies or their cells; even the radios in their units were acting up. The Sheriff's men found something called a 'jammer' stashed under that plant just beside the front porch. That's why your phone didn't work most of the day yesterday." Alan blanched and shivered. "That man was here for hours -- he hid that thing and then waited!"

Bradford tilted his head. "That explains why the phone started working when we got away from the house," he observed.

Alan nodded and pushed past him, drinking in the somewhat disheveled sight of his oldest son. "Donny," he breathed, pausing in front of him. He could see the white bandage under the tent of a shirt, and he was afraid to touch him, even though he wanted to grab him and never let go. "Son, are you all-right? Do we need to get you to a hospital?" His expression turned appraising. "You look pale."

Don smiled and moved to take his father in a one-armed clinch. "I'm fine, Dad; it's just a graze. The paramedic said to see my personal physician as soon as I get back to the city for some antibiotics." _And a possible plastic surgery referral_, he edited silently, pulling back to search his father's eyes. "You okay?"

Alan returned his smile. "Better, now," he answered truthfully. "I've been going crazy out here waiting to see you and your brother."

Bradford cleared his throat and reluctantly interrupted. "I wouldn't leave him alone for too long."

"Oh!" Alan started, and hugged the clothing tighter to his chest. "Charlie said I could help him clean up," he shared, relief once again apparent in his voice. "I'd better go before he changes his mind."

Don stepped aside. "Yeah," he said dully, as Alan passed. _Great_, he thought dismally. _He's ready to let Dad get close to him again, but as far as he's concerned his brother is lying dead in the guest room_. He sighed heavily and made his way to the bay window.

He didn't even acknowledge Bradford when the doctor joined him, and the two stood silently looking out at the sunrise over the lake for almost three minutes before the man spoke. "It's hardly ever as bad as you think."

Don snorted. "It's worse," he muttered. "I heard him, you know. After you and Dad left last night. He was saying that he missed that jerk, that he wanted to leave with him. He called him his brother." He sounded like a petulant child to his own ears and stopped speaking abruptly.

Bradford heard tires on the gravel and swiveled his head to see David's pick-up skidding to a halt in the driveway. A grin played at his mouth. He was surprised it had taken them this long. "Your friends are here," he said, looking at the lake again. Don started to move but Bradford halted him. "Don. Danielson was going to kill us all -- that's why he brought the gun, and he was going to make Charlie help him. Charlie said those things to him to talk him out of it." Don shot him a look, a glimmer of hope in his eye. Bradford met his gaze and smiled. "One of the first things he asked me, when they finally let me in, was how his brother was. I confess, I wasn't sure who he meant, myself -- until he elaborated. 'Don,' he clarified. 'Is Donny okay?' I think he knows who you are, Agent Eppes."

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When Charlie was 26, just after Margaret was diagnosed the first time and was still in the hospital after the mastectomy, he got suddenly and violently ill himself. Alan had been expecting him at the hospital after classes, and was surprised when he didn't show – that was in the early days; the days before 'P vs. NP'. Unable to reach his son on the phone, he had finally left Margaret in a drug-induced slumber around 7 in the evening and returned to the Craftsman. Within five hours he was back at the hospital, this time with a son who had come dangerously close to a burst appendix.

Alan remembered having his own appendix out, years before, and the week-long hospital stay afterwards. These days, though, you were lucky to get two or three days of hospital care, and Charlie was sent home a few ounces lighter less than 48 hours later. Alan had come close to calling Don, at that point. Margaret had to stay in the hospital to endure an immediate round of chemo, and Charlie was certainly in no shape to take care of himself. At the time, Amita was just another graduate student, and Larry was out of town at some symposium. After a talk with Margaret, who really didn't want Don to know anything until, as she kept saying, "after the fact; after I've beaten this", Alan had spent a difficult 24 hours away from her. He stayed home and took care of his weak and slightly feverish son.

That had been the last time he had helped him shower, and dress. The memory, as he stood outside the fiberglass stall waiting with the shampoo bottle, was bittersweet. When the boys were growing up, nurturing had been Margaret's territory for the most part. He refused to let their little sweaty bodies crawl into the parental bed when they were sick, so Margaret would crawl into the tiny twin with whichever son was throwing up at the moment – and that solution was just fine with him. Oh, he wasn't entirely disconnected. He refereed fights, drove the occasional car pool, was even man enough to buy tampons at the grocery. But hands-on love was something he had missed out on, and he didn't even discover that until he was helping his 26-year-old son keep from falling over while he put on his boxers.

He found that he not only enjoyed the caretaking experience; he was good at it. He certainly got to hone his skills during Margaret's illness, but very few opportunities presented themselves for a man to take care of his adult sons. Like most boys of their generation, they grew up under a woman's touch, and they were uncomfortable with the roles as they knew them changing.

Alan waited for the door to open and Charlie to sneak a hand out for the shampoo, and shook his head sorrowfully. All the roles had changed for Charlie. He was abducted and stripped of the connections he had, and coerced into making a false one in their stead. In the last two months he had lost his brother, his father, his girlfriend, his best friend…and been convinced to replace them all with a madman's fantasy, only to discover painfully the unreality of their relationship. As if that were not discombobulating enough, he had been forced to choose, in the dead of night, between his past and his potential future.

A skinny hand crept over the top of the shower door, and Alan smiled as he pushed the bottle of shampoo into the fingers. Reaching behind him for the towels he knew would be required next, he didn't even feel guilty as he thanked his God in Heaven for the millionth time, that Charlie had made the right decision.

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End, Chapter 18


	19. The Buddy

**Title: Grand Theft Brother**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Continues...**

**Chapter 19: The Buddy**

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It was another week before Don found out what happened to the koi.

When the phone jammer was discovered and turned off, everyone had been able to check their messages. Don had been so preoccupied with a silent and shell-shocked Charlie that he took no note of Alan's frown as he wandered toward the kitchen, cell plastered to his ear. He did witness a rather frantic conversation his father had with Colby and David in the corner of the great room, and wondered what that was all about. He was curious enough, when he awoke from a brief nap on the couch and saw them, that he cautiously pushed himself up -- Charlie was still sleeping on the other end -- and slapped his clown feet across the wood floor to interrupt. His dad was pushing a piece of paper and a frightening amount of green at David, his wallet in his hands. "What's up?" Don asked casually.

His father's guilty embarrassment should have been a tip-off, but frankly, Don was still operating just this side of overload, and didn't make the connection. "Nothing. Nothing," Alan answered, flustered.

Don raised his eyes at the money David gripped in his hand, and Colby rushed in with an explanation. "Your dad said you all will probably stay here another night, and head back tomorrow. Since Dave and I are going back this afternoon, we volunteered to stock the house with groceries. You know, so Alan can stay with Charlie for a while and not worry about it." On cue, David held up the small scrap of notebook paper Alan had scribbled on -- although the words were on the other side. "We have a list!", Colby half-shouted, triumphant.

Don grimaced and glanced behind him at the couch. "Keep it down," he admonished. "Charlie is still asleep."

His father's eyes softened as he followed Don's gaze. "Out here -- on the couch -- with other people around," he marveled, smiling a little. It was no wonder that his youngest did not want to return to the room he had been using, where Danielson lay dead so recently; but there were many other sleeping quarters in the cabin, and he preferred to think of Charlie's choosing the couch to sleep on as a good sign. Alan had been happily surprised that Charlie had even _sat_ on the couch, since Don was already there at the time. That he further felt comfortable enough to fall asleep there was nothing short of a miracle. Now, he pulled at David's elbow. "We should probably take this in the kitchen," he suggested, and the two agents nodded mutely and started to follow him out of the room.

"Wait," stage-whispered Don, and they all turned as if caught with their hands in the cookie jar. No-one spoke, but Alan arched an eyebrow. Don shook his head at their odd behavior as he asked his question. "Is there any ice cream in the freezer? At home, I mean, not here." They looked at him blankly and Don directed his next comment to his father. "Charlie likes ice cream?"

"Oh!" Alan responded loudly, slamming his hand over his mouth and wincing. He turned his head to look at Charlie. Finding him still asleep he dropped his hand and looked back at Don. "Oh," he whispered this time. "We'll add that to the list."

The entire episode should have rung all sorts of alarm bells, but didn't. Colby and David had left not long after; the Eppes and Bradford followed the next day. Charlie was quiet to the point of being withdrawn, and didn't even always participate verbally in the daily sessions Bradford held with them that first week. Still, he was always ready to go, and Don was happy to take the additional time off work -- although he was relieved when Bradford suggested they begin to taper the visits to his office. Don wanted to stay at the house, but figured that might put too much pressure on Charlie; so even though he was usually there for several hours each day, he returned to his apartment every evening. He was just glad his brother was back at the Craftsman, coexisting peacefully with Alan; maybe a little _too_ peacefully. The younger man was always unfailingly polite, and seemed a little rattled all of the time. His demeanor suggested a slight guilt, and fear, as if he might be reprimanded -- or worse -- at any moment. He spent hours sitting out at the koi pond, but never seemed much more at peace when he came back. On the contrary, he usually looked perplexed. Still, Don and Alan did not intrude on his solitude there. The koi pond had long been a source of comfort for Charlie, and Don, for one, hoped it would help heal his brother now. He wasn't sure what Alan thought; his father always disappeared himself whenever Charlie headed for the pond.

After a week, Don returned to work. Even though there was a transfer from the Vegas office assigned to his team for the duration, which threw them back into the thick of things immediately, Don was distracted all day. Intellectually, he knew that Danielson was dead and could not harm Charlie any more -- but every case that came across his desk made him think twice. Was there a suspect here who would target his family? Would a witness go off the deep end and take Charlie along for the ride? And even though Irvine's jacket looked good, and the new agent was confident and friendly, Don held himself aloof and tried to read behind the lines. Was there a crazy brother, or cousin, or ex-neighbor in this guy's background? It was all he could do to get through the day without calling his father to check up on Charlie, but since it had occurred to him during yesterday's session that he wasn't extending the old man a lot of trust these days either, and he didn't want to insult him, Don managed. Still he hurried to the house as soon as he could after work, even considering using the lights and siren for a moment, arriving around 6 in the afternoon.

He found his father standing in the kitchen, staring worriedly out the window that looked over the back yard. Don followed his gaze and saw his brother sitting on the grass facing the koi pond. "Tough day?" He wasn't sure if it was a question about his father's day, or a statement about his own.

Alan started violently, his hand flying to his chest, an indiscriminate, disgruntled grunt preceding his vocabulary. "Good grief, Don, don't you get enough sneaking around at work?" Don started to protest that he'd called out his father's name twice already, but Alan abruptly turned from the window, his hand fluttering in a gesture oddly reminiscent of Larry. "I'm doing laundry," he said. "Laundry. I'll see you later." Before Don could do anything about it, the older man pushed past him and rushed out of the kitchen -- in a direction totally opposite the laundry room. Don sighed, wondering which problem to tackle first. Should he leave Charlie to his koi and pursue his dad? Or should he leave his dad to his fabric softener and go talk to Charlie?

In the end, it was no contest, and he strode out the back door and across the lawn. He had left Charlie alone with the koi for a week; it was time to share. "Hey, Buddy," he said, announcing his presence as he lowered himself to sit a few feet away from Charlie on the grass.

To his surprise, Charlie jumped into the conversation at full speed. "I'm not sure I should go back to work next month when my leave of absence is over," he started. "I'm beginning to think this whole thing affected my intellectual capabilities as well as my emotional ones."

Well. Hadn't been expecting that, but Don was willing to bite. "Charlie, you thought it was a great idea two sessions ago."

"I know," Charlie rushed on, exasperated. "I've done some work in the garage; nothing serious, mostly I've just gone over a few things that I already had brewing in there. It all seemed to make sense to me, but this...this...this just _doesn't_."

Don was almost starting to enjoy this. It wasn't that he liked to see his brother upset, but Charlie was sounding more like _Charlie_ than he had since he'd been back. He looked at the pond, and didn't see anything unusual. "What?" he finally asked. "I'm not seeing it."

Charlie threw out an arm toward the pond. "Look," he demanded. "Look at the ki koi. It's swimming from right to left."

Nonplussed, Don let a moment pass, and then giggled. "Did you just say 'ki koi'?"

Charlie finally looked away from the pond long enough to look at Don and roll his eyes. "The yellow one, Don. Look at the yellow one."

Don followed instructions and spotted a yellow flash near the South wall of the pond. "Um. Okay."

Charlie jabbed a finger toward another fish. "And the Shusui. The pattern is all wrong."

Don snorted. "You did _not_ just refer to one of your koi as 'sushi', Chuck."

Charlie turned a peeved eye on his brother. "No, I did not. 'Shu-sue-ee'; three syllables." He pointed again at the water. "There, the blue one."

Don nodded. "I always liked that one."

"It's the German adaptation of an Asagi," Charlie informed him. "Light blue body, darker blue zipper scales, some red markings..."

"Yeah," Don interrupted. "That's what I said."

Charlie sighed, clearly irritated. "Listen, the point I'm trying to make is that none of these guys is doing what he's supposed to. Do you realize how many hours I've put in at this pond, studying patterns? The established devices of movement; even the configuration of relationship. The Chagoi, for instance -- the brown one -- he should be swimming circles around the Bekko. I think he wants her."

A burst of laughter shot out of Don's mouth. _"What?"_

Charlie defended his position. "Well, I'm not certain she's a she; but she's very dainty, don't you think? The white one, with black spots on her upper half?"

"There are two white ones," Don pointed out.

Charlie begged to differ. "No, no, the one with the red pattern in a Kohaku. Dad's favorite, the orange Beni? It's not behaving in character either."

Don emitted a low whistle. "Damn, Charlie. I had no idea you were such a koi expert." He giggled again. " _'He wants her'_ ?"

"You're missing the point," Charlie said sourly, standing and brushing the grass off his jeans. "I'm going for a walk."

"Wait," said Don, starting to stand himself. "I'm sorry, Buddy. I am. But _shushi _?"

A small smile cracked Charlie's serious face, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Shut-up," he said easily, and Don brushed off his own jeans, smiling back at him.

"Maybe they missed you, Charlie. Maybe your absence disrupted their universe and everything got off-kilter. Did you ever think of that?"

Charlie tilted his head and seemed to consider the possibility. "That would imply recognition; the ability to differentiate one human from another."

"Don kept grinning. "Well, how much of a stretch is that? I mean, come on, you just said one of them is hot for another one of them."

Charlie's smile grew a little wider. "I really am going for a walk," he responded. "I saw Dad take steaks out of the groceries today; maybe you should help him with the grill."

"Want me to go with you?" Don offered.

Charlie shook his head. "Nah. Just around the block. I've got to think about this whole koi situation."

"Don't step in front of any cars," Don warned his brother's back. Charlie was already almost out of the yard. Don grinned again, more relaxed than he had been in weeks, and strolled slowly to the house.

He entered the kitchen and found his father sitting unoccupied at the table. "Hey," Don greeted. "Charlie said you might have steaks?"

Alan glanced up furtively. "Is he still out there?"

Don headed for the refrigerator and beer. "Went for a short walk. Did you know he knew so much about koi? All their...brands, or whatever."

Alan stiffened. "What did he say about the koi? And it's 'breeds'."

Don extricated his beer and leaned against a counter. "He was trying to show me who's not doing what; he's convinced the koi are misbehaving."

He was surprised when Alan's face crumbled in despair. "I have to tell him, then. He's already questioning too much, I can't let him think he's going koi crazy on top of everything else."

Don had the bottle halfway to his mouth, but his eyes narrowed and he lowered it. "What did you do?" he interrogated.

So Alan told him. About the message from Rodney Henderson when they were still at the cabin, about asking Colby and David to stock the pond with more fish, about detailing the kind they should get on his 'list of groceries'.

"Shit," Don said when Alan was finished with his confession. "He's really attached to those things. He thinks two of them are having an affair."

Alan's scowl was replaced by confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

Don shook his head. "Never mind. Had to be there." He finally took a drag off his beer and let a few seconds of silence pass. "Maybe we shouldn't say anything."

Alan looked at him hopefully. "We can't let him question his observational skills; his mathematical computations. Can we?"

Don considered. "It never hurts to be more observant, or to step it up a notch in your chosen field. One needs to be alert to stay on top of the heap." He was warming to his subject, now. "You could say that we're helping him."

Alan smiled. "Yes, I suppose you could. Care for a tri tip?"

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Charlie stood in the garage and looked again at the receipt he had found wadded up in a ball, halfway under his desk. Why on earth had his father bought an entire slew of new koi? How had he done it? The date on the receipt was last week, when they were still at Bradford's. Not only that, where were they? There were no more koi in the pond now than... Charlie's eyes narrowed.

That explained everything. Every-freakin'-thing.

The patterns and behaviors were wrong, because they were not the same fish. He wasn't imagining anything, or losing his touch, either. He squeezed the hand holding the receipt into a fist and stormed out of the garage, determined to confront his father and Don this instant. As he exited the door, he saw them both standing near the back of the house, at the grill, and he glanced angrily at the koi as he passed, stomping in their direction. As he got closer, he could hear them laughing. They were standing side-by-side at the grill, shoulders relaxed, happy. The sound of their voices drifted across the lawn and Charlie felt his steps slowing. His father turned and spied him, smiled broadly and waved. Charlie waved back, with the hand clutching the receipt, and when he lowered his hand he shoved the receipt in the pocket of his jeans. He started to walk toward his family again, glancing back once at the koi pond, and made an executive decision.

Some things?

Some things were on a need-to-know basis.

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The End

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Whew! I think I shook that plot bunny off, Tanager. Got anymore? Maybe a sequel...


End file.
